The French Affair
by SeriousScribble
Summary: All is not well: After the Final Battle, Harry’s life has settled down and left him unsatisfied. But suddenly, there’s a murder, and a chance meeting with the beautiful Fleur Delacour changes things completely… Intrigues and secret projects abound. HP/FD
1. Prologue: Five years later

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine in RL, sadly, so I had to insert myself into the story, to get at least _something_ out of it. Watch out for Gary the Fanboy, played by me.

**Extended Summary:  
**Five Years Later: All is not well. After the Final Battle with the Dark Lord, Harry's life has settled down and left him unsatisfied. But suddenly, there's a murder, and then, a chance meeting with the beautiful Fleur Delacour changes things completely. In midst of political tensions, schemes start to involve Harry, with more than one obscure agenda. Intrigues, secret projects and lies – and who could resist a fatally alluring woman again?

**Thanks:  
**To _Black Knight 03_, who allowed me to use her idea and give it my own spin. Read her story _More Than A Pretty Face_, it's a nice short-story.

To _Andromalius_, who looked over the chapter and reworked the action scenes. I'm happy that you'll never see my attempts.

To _Tinn Tam_, who gave fabulous feedback, and helped me patiently with the French parts. If it's still not right, it's my fault, not hers. Merci beaucoup, Tinny. Tu es super.

To _Dark Belra_ and _Neisseria_, for giving me inspirations for the back story when I couldn't think of anything myself. And to the rest of you guys from DLP, who commented and helped to make the chapter better. So, here is:

* * *

**T**he** F**rench** A**ffair

**Prologue: **Five years later

The streets glistened from the rain in the light of the street lamps that illuminated the early October night and a chilly fog had begun to creep into the streets from the banks of the nearby River Thames. The world-famous melody was drifting over from the Clock Tower, followed by ten strikes; but even at this time, many cars were rushing past the ever watchful eyes of Admiral Nelson. Trafalgar Square was the heart of London and never came to rest.

In the little alleyway somewhere off the main streets in Whitehall, though, it was only a distant noise. Nobody was outside and the shabby offices were all dark; only from a pub nearby sounded raucous laughter every once in a while. A lone lamp lit up part of the street, showing a heavily graffitied wall and an old red telephone box, clearly out of order and quite vandalised.

At a particularly loud round of laughter, a cat darted away from the wall, over to a skip; and vanished into the night.

# # #

Eric Munch had long since retired from his profession as the best and only employee of the Ministry Security Guard. There had been many changes after one particular incident somehow involving the Department of Mysteries, and especially in the war, a strong and competent internal security had been needed, so a new office had been created, reporting directly to the Minister.

Gary Frobisher didn't really know more than that, and didn't particularly care to, either. He was young enough, so he took a night shift once a week, got the allowance for that _and_ was free on the weekends. It was a bit boring, sitting alone at the desk, but he entertained himself with thoughts from the last weekend.

Her name was Jessica.

Just as he was idly wondering how her hot step-sister would be or even both together, the lift of the visitor entrance, at the end of the hall, clattered to a halt. The door sprang open, and the world bloomed.

Even from across the long hall, he could see that an angel had just now stepped down into the Ministry, down to him. _For him_. His eyes were fixed on the apparition. The hall was mostly dark, but lights from the lift behind her illuminated her, surrounding her with a soft glow. Over the low murmur of the falling water from the fountain, heels clicked sharply on the floor, echoing in the empty hall.

An angel with high-heels.

As she had crossed maybe half the distance, she shrugged off her cape, with a graceful, fluid motion, and he was blinded by her. The angel had turned into a Goddess.

A Goddess, with black high-heels, endless legs; in a wonderfully short red dress that clung to her figure and hid nothing, especially not those fantastic tits. His look was stuck there, and the best thing was, she didn't even seem to mind. She simply smiled widely, smiled at _him_, as she saw where he was looking, and sauntered forwards, until she reached him, extending her index finger and pushing up his chin; burning his skin where she had touched him.

Red lips, crystal blue eyes and white-blonde hair that cascaded down her back and seemed to be waving in a constant breeze. Oh yes, a veritable goddess, indeed. He suddenly felt very inadequate, and an overwhelming urge to help her, with whatever she might need.

Pulling himself together, he asked: "How can I be of assistance, Miss?"

How did one speak to such a perfect, exquisite creature? But apparently, he'd said the right thing, because the smile became radiant.

"Oh, monsieur, if eet eez no trouble …"

She had a throaty, sensual voice that promised all sorts of wicked pleasure _with a French accent!_ Sweet Merlin fucking Morgana. Gary felt like he would die any moment from the sensory overload.

"… I was wondering, per'aps do you know where ze prizoner zat was brought in today eez 'eld?"

She looked at him expectantly. Gary beamed. He could help her with that!

"Yes, madame. As it happens, that was a matter of the Inner Security Office, so I know that he is held in the interrogating cells, in our wing; the new part of Level One. I don't know more than that, it's all top-secret, you see, but Gordon should. He's up there, the senior Guard for tonight. You want to visit Gordon?"

Another brilliant smile. "Oui, indeed. I think I'll pay 'im a visit."

"I'll notify him."

Suddenly, he wasn't all that happy anymore. Why couldn't she stay here? He turned to press the button of the Magicomm, but was distracted by a movement in front of him. The French Goddess had bent forward, offering him a first-class view into her wonderful valley, full of smooth creamy skin and perfect curves.

"I want to surprise 'im."

"Of … course," he said distractedly. There was no other piece of cloth there. _Under the dress was nothing else!_ He tried to prevent himself from hyperventilating, and was mostly successful. "Yes, yes, a surprise. I'll just need – you – want … err, I mean, I'll need your wand, then."

When she said nothing, he looked up.

"Your wand, please?"

His eyes caught hers, which seemed to glow in a pale blue fire, less than an arm's length away, mesmerising him.

"Zere eez no need for zat."

Why ever had he asked such a stupid question?

"No need for that," he repeated, nodding emphatically. "After all, it's not like you can use it up there anyway."

The fire abruptly blazed up.

"What do you mean?"

He cringed. She was angry! He chuted backwards in his chair.

"Hurry up, fool! Why wouldn't I be able to use my wand?"

"The – the wards," he said meekly. "It's on one level with the Minister's office, and the wand has to be recognised by the wards to be allowed to use. Otherwise, the general alarm will be sounded."

The anger seemed to vanish as fast as it had risen. She smiled again, even if appeared to be a bit colder.

"I zank you very much for your 'elp. Now would you be a dear, and open ze gates for me?"

Her deep blue eyes bored into him, and he suddenly felt very tired. He nodded sleepily, and pressed both his hand and his wand onto the Magilock to his left, tracing the intricate rune-patterns after it had recognized him. The golden gates a couple of feet away from the desk clicked open.

"There you are, madame," he yawned.

"Why, zank you. You are tired, are you not? You poor thing, eet _eez_ a awful job, and you've been working far too 'ard. Per'aps you should rest. I'm sure, you'll be fine."

He felt himself nod again, before his eyes closed, and he fell into a wonderful, warm darkness.

# # #

_Merde._ She stood in front of the snoring idiot, cursing. At least he would remember nothing more than an ethereal vision of beauty from their little encounter, not that she was anything less, of course. But that wouldn't matter if the whole Auror Corps came running when she used her wand up there. Sneaking in and out with the help of magic was out. She had to rely on her other talents.

She stepped through the gates, away from the desk into the smaller hall beyond, which was once again only lit up by dim emergency lights. Long shadows revealed the places in the back where the lifts stood, with their wrought golden grilles, that were now simply black. She stepped towards the nearest and pressed the little 'up' button, entering the lift. The grille slid shut behind her with a clang, and she leaned against the back wall, rubbing her temples while the lift began its ascent.

Even if it had been laughably easy to overwhelm this pathetically weak-minded English excuse of a watchwizard, especially as he seemed to have been in the right mood already, it was still taxing.

She fumed at the thought that at the end of the night, she would have a headache that no potion but rest would cure – just because of _him_. Oh, she would love nothing more than to fry him alive. Maybe bound to her bed with silk, yes, yes …and then she could slowly torture him, until he begged her for mercy and forgiveness … she got a bit excited at that thought, and the building pressure in her head dimmed.

She sighed in relief.

The cabin was drenched in a dim red light whose source was not visible, and after a few more minutes of continuous ride, it started to grate on her nerves. She pulled her wand from her cloak and conjured a white light, bathing the cabin in brightness, which saved her only moments later, as the lift suddenly shuddered to a halt at Level Two, and the doors opened.

"Argh! What the hell is –"

At once she let her Aura loose on him, wincing at the pain in the back of her head, and hoping that he had been too blinded by the sudden light to really see her.

The man stepped into the lift, still with a hand shielding his eyes, wearing the blue Auror standard-robe, but she discovered the small crest at once. Two rapiers crossed behind a shield, he belonged to the Security Guard as well.

The doors closed again, and he slowly lowered his hand, staring at her, starting to grin.

"Well, what do we have here? Are you lost, girl?"

He was noticeably stronger than the first one. Playing the role he wanted her to made things easier, so she lowered her head demurely, and looked at him trough her eyelashes.

"Oui, monsieur. I was looking for a friend. 'e eez 'ere, tonight."

He smiled at her lecherously, his eyes roaming all over her body, never questioning her presence. She relaxed. It worked on him, as well. Her soft French accent added another layer to that complex web of magic she spun around him, and left him with much different thoughts than duty or profession.

Not that her English wasn't good. But more often than not, her accent made things much easier and worked in her benefit.

She smiled, as his eyes didn't left her body, while mentally suppressing a snort.

_Yes, look … because this is the nearest you'll ever get to a woman like me._

He probably even thought he had a chance.

_At least the first Guard was good-looking. You, my dear, are simply fat._

Fleur pushed away the thoughts about him, and concentrated on the mission. He puffed himself up.

"In that case, you're lucky that you met me. I'm commanding the Ministry for the night, there's no one here I don't know of. So, who might this friend be?"

_Parfait._ It had to be the senior Guard, Gordon or how the man at the Entrance called him. She stepped towards him.

"'Arry Potter, monsieur."

She saw the short flash of distrust the moment she said it, just as she had expected, but he was distracted by her chest as she moved, and soon she had him under control completely once again, and he relaxed; enthralled in her web like a fly by a spider, yet happy about it. Men were such simple creatures, n'est-ce pas?

"Yeah, he's here alright. But don't you worry your pretty blond head, he's in a cell, safely locked away."

She giggled flirtatiously as his hand reached out, and roamed over her hair.

"And 'e can't escape, really not?" she asked in a fake small voice, putting a little quiver into it as if she was frightened, and inched closer towards the man.

"Never." He was all but devouring her with his eyes. "We have the newest safety measures, and four of our Guards are watching every exit. And, of course, I am here." He smiled winningly. "He has no chance against me, I'll protect you."

She repressed the urge to roll her eyes. _If Harry was out, he'd wipe the floor with you any time, you idiot. And so would I, for that matter._

"So all ze Guards are male, non?"

He frowned. "No, they aren't. In fact, we had to put together a new shift, and since Peters got sick, and Johnson is on vacation, tonight there are only female Guards here, aside from Gary down at the Gates. Odd coincidence. But of course, they are just as competent."

Her little breaking and entering got more complicated by the minute. Cursing angrily inside, she realised that she had to get as much information out of him as she could, because she wouldn't get another chance.

Until now, after the initial all-out attack, he had answered on his own accord, because she had played him right. Time to see how resistant he really was.

"And zes safety measures? What are zey, exactly?"

He grinned and winked at her, probably trying to look roguishly, and failing, badly.

"Top secret, of course. But why are we talking about these boring things?"

He looked directly into her face, and his hand sneaked around her waist, starting to pull up her dress. "I have a better …"

Again, her eyes burned bright blue. The pain shot through her like a pin-prick.

"List all and any safety measures between 'ere and 'Arry Potter's cell."

The man stared at her, nodding dumbly.

"There are four Guards on duty. There is a ward that dispels glamours. It's built into a brass archway, directly at the entrance to the Minister's Lobby. There is a security door, at the entrance of the new wing. There – "

"Wait." The pain in her head started to become massive. She had to be quick.

"'ow do you open ze security door?"

The man continued, never once questioning what he did.

"I press my wand at the plate to the right. Then I press my hand at it. Then it recognises me and I enter the code."

"You will tell me ze code."

Fleur stared at him, fighting through the pain to keep her influence upon him.

He nodded. "I'll tell you the code."

He started to make jerky movements with his hand, she realised that he was trying to show her a sequence of runes.

"Again."

He nodded once more.

"Again."

He repeated the sequence, and Fleur was sure that she had remembered it correctly. She bit back a moan. Her head felt like it would split in two.

_Just a little bit more._

She gritted her teeth.

"From 'ere to ze cell, 'ow do I get zer?"

The pain in her head became unbearable, and she felt her control slip.

"You walk along the corridor, into the direction you face when you exit the lift. Then you turn left at the first junction. Then you continue until you reach the Minister's Lobby. Then there's the route with the security door, it's completely bare …"

He broke off and his features started to clear, as her power gave out at last. His hand was about to wander up her legs into her dress, so it was just as well. In a swift motion, she grabbed his head, and violently slammed it into the metal wall of the lift with a satisfying crash. He emitted a startled _ooof_, and for good measure, she repeated the process for a second and a third time, leaving him sinking to the ground unconscious and herself immensely satisfied. Thought he could touch her, did he?

_Gros cochon._

Now knowing what do expect, she started to work fast. She pulled the man's wand out of his holster, wincing at the contact with the grey wood. It felt hostile and not compatible at all. She wouldn't be able to cast even the weakest spell with it, that much was certain.

Stripping out of her dress, she stood in the moving escalator with just her blue panties and her heels on, which she transfigured into boots. The coat became a black leather suit, and the dress an equally black beanie. She slipped into the suit, moving her arms experimentally. It fit her snugly, and she was quite flexible in it. But most importantly, it would hide her in the shadows as much as possible, when her Disillusionment Charm was dispelled.

She put her hair into a bun and the cap over it, carefully shoving every blond streak under it; disillusioned herself, and extinguished the light, just as the lift reached the first floor, and the door clattered open. It seemed far too loud in the absolute quiet that was the Ministry at night.

"Gordon? That you?"

She started. The female voice carried over from some corners away.

Hastily, she slipped out of the lift. She hid in a corner, waiting tensely, but the Guard didn't come. Everything was silent again. Just her own soft breathing, and the blood soughing in her ears. She tried to calm herself.

After a few more moments she started to creep down the dark corridor, the noise of her footfalls swallowed by the thick carpet. She passed a few doors to her right, all closed, while the left wall was bare for a long time until a grey rectangle emerged from the darkness. The junction.

She crouched down at the corner and, bracing her body with the right hand on the ground, slowly bent sideways around the wall, only to look directly up to an arriving Guard.

The Guard took another step, treading on her fingers resting out in the corridor. She couldn't suppress a low hiss. Her heart rate sped up, when the woman stiffened at once. She used her wand to light up the area and watch it intently.

Her bruised fingers were throbbing painfully, and she gritted her teeth – the female Guard was now staring directly at her … she held her breath … the Guard was frowning, bending down – and staring through her. The disillusionment worked.

After a small eternity, the Guard shook her head, rose, turned and walked back down the corridor.

She sighed in relief and tried to ignore the lingering pain. Standing up, she followed her. Once again, to the left the wall was without a single door, although now, there were a few paintings on it. For maybe three minutes she walked silently behind the Guard, until the woman stopped, and turned again. Apparently, she was patrolling the corridor.

She flattened herself against the wall, feeling the leather stretch over her chest as she breathed softly. She almost jumped when the sleeve of the woman's robe brushed over her suit slightly, but the Guard took no notice of it and passed her without a look.

Only when there was a safe distance between them, she dared to move again. Her hands went to her head once more. She was constantly on the edge, constantly alert, and it was making her headache worse.

She continued in the opposite direction, and after a few steps, she reached a metal archway that gleamed dully in the dim twilight. _The glamour-ward._ She took a quick look around, but the light from the Guard was far away, only a little pinpoint in the corridor. She crossed the ward, feeling the warm sensation of the Disillusionment Charm dispelling, and emerged into a wide open space, with a few groups of chairs and small desks scattered throughout, next to some pot plants.

Here her directions ended. She looked for the route that would lead her to the new wing, but it wasn't hard to find, considering one of the Guards was patrolling it, emerging into the lobby on the other side of the room just now.

She went prone, crawling behind the nearest suite, trying to make no sound. She succeeded, until a metal buckle scraped softly over the ground.

The beam of light from the wand slipped over the plant in front of her, and lingered for an excruciatingly long minute. She couldn't see anything from her position. The room seemed to shrink until she was sure that she had to be discovered. Were those steps?

She strained to hear something, but there was just the silence humming in her ears, which suddenly felt heavy and oppressing.

But nothing happened. Finally, the light moved on, over the desk, the chairs, and continued onwards, throughout the room. Lifting her head, she let out a long breath and followed the light; it darted over a clock on the wall to her left and she memorised the time. Twenty-five past ten and four seconds. It had taken much longer than expected up here.

The wandlight receded back into the hallway, and she moved quickly though the lobby. On one table, she found a small pocket watch. Some visitor during the day had to have forgotten it. She picked it up and hid on the right side of the corridor, into which the second Guard had gone; the route that at the other end held the high security door with the entrance to the new wing.

She bit her lip. If the corridor was as the senior Guard had described it, there would be no place to hide. She could perhaps slip in behind the patrolling Guard, while she was standing in the lobby, but then what?

The Guard would be coming after her, and she needed a while to open the locked door, with just his wand. But perhaps the Guard would not walk to the very end? Maybe she could hide in the corner, if she was fast enough.

The steps returned.

# # #

She waited there, hidden, watching a couple of rounds from the Guard, and taking the time. The woman was quite precise, always taking between one minute thirty and one minute forty-four to complete a turn.

She decided to go ahead. There was nothing for it. It was a miserable excuse of a plan, but she had lost too much time already to think up a suitable alternative. The Guard emerged out of the corridor, and once again, the light roamed through the lobby. The clock now read twenty-five to eleven.

While the Guard was facing in the opposite direction, she snuck into the corridor. She moved as quickly as she dared – if the Guard would turn now, alerted by a small sound …

After only a short way into the corridor, she heard what she had feared. Somewhere behind her were now footsteps, evenly and much too fast. She sped up, using her left hand to guide her way along the wall, and her right hand as a buffer; stretched out in front of her to not run headlong into the door.

She was effectively blind. It was pitch-black, the grey twilight that pervaded the lobby had vanished a few steps into the corridor. It seemed to stretch endlessly. From what she felt, it was indeed completely bare, rough stone walls, unadorned and highly practical. Where was the door?

She felt the presence of the Guard behind her. It was like a constant pressure on her back, the subdued echoes of footfalls a heavy weight that spurred her forward, faster and faster. She was walking quickly now, not daring to turn her head to look back, afraid to stumble, and she didn't want to look back, either, fearing how close she would see the light if she did.

But just knowing that the Guard could be getting closer and closer was enough. She tried to rationalise it, while she walked deeper into the new wing. She always had a chance. She could overwhelm the Guard easily. _As long as she's surprised and doesn't make enough noise to attract the rest of them._

But she felt little better, after this reassurance.

_Thump._

Her right hand connected with something solid. It was cold, probably metal. She had reached the door. Now, where to hide, until the Guard had completed this round and walked out of the corridor again?

She turned around. The light was not very far away. Once she was near enough to be in its cone, she would be seen. _Quick! Where to hide? In the corner and hope for the best?_

The light had gotten substantially nearer. The comforting shadows fled in flittery unrest … her hand felt out a protrusion on the door, and with it came a stroke of insight. _Up._

She didn't hesitate for a moment. Lifting her right feet, she climbed onto edge, her finger clawing at the door lintel to find hold. She pulled herself up, and grinned satisfied at what she felt; the door was substantially thicker than the wall separating this part of the corridor from the other half; yet it didn't reach up to the ceiling. If she hunched up, she could wait over the door on the ledge… and then hope that the Guard didn't look up.

The cone of light reached the door.

# # #

It was once again a small eternity. She was crouched in a corner, using her hands to prop herself against the ceiling, to not fall down. The woman took her duty very seriously; walking until the door was bathed in light, and there was no possible place to hide, in any corner. The ledge was brightly lit as well, and she held her breath, as the Guard lifted the wand. Seconds passed, in which the position became more and more tiring and her arms started burning.

But the Guard didn't think in three dimensions, she never once looked up. And then finally, she turned and resumed her patrolling.

As soon as the Guard was the barest minimum of distance away, she lowered herself to the ground. Comparing quickly the times she had gotten from the clock, she figured she now had about one minute and thirty-seven seconds until the Guard returned, about fifty seconds of which the woman would spend with her back to her.

She placed the watch on the ground, watching the second hand, and knelt in front of the plate.

_One._

She pulled out both wands. Pressing the one she had taken from Guard onto the plate she had seen to the right of the door, she started her work on the lock. A dim light was spreading from the plate, so she could see well enough.

_Seventeen … Eighteen …_

Now any authorised Guard would have to press their hand against it. She had to do without. A few hasty movements with her own wand traced a runic pattern into the air, glowing golden.

_Thirty-one …_

The runes were absorbed by the plate, doing absolutely nothing. Frustrated, she tried again.

The first part of the sequence.

_Thirty-six …_

Nothing. Fifteen seconds at most, and the Guard would turn around to see the glowing plate like a lighthouse in the corridor.

_Thirty seven_ …_ Thirty-eight …_

She tried to calm herself. There was enough time for another try yet. She switched hands. The right one was her wandhand, and she had used it to press the borrowed wand against the plate, not to trace the rune grid.

Forty-five …

Suddenly, the plate glowed more brightly, and symbols began to appear. Her wand moved in a blur, disentangling a few, moving others around. She was inside.

_Forty-six …_

A pattern seemed to evolve. Now for the code.

_Forty-seven …_

And still five more Runes to go. She wouldn't be ready in time, she saw that clearly, with one Rune taking roughly a second to draw correctly.

_Forty-eight …_

Her wand sped back and forth over the plate.

_Forty-nine …_

Three more …

_Fifty._

Time was up. Her hand had started to shake a bit, not the most conducive way to draw Runes with accuracy and speed. She finished the penultimate Rune … where was the Guard? Completing the second half of the round already? It had never taken more than fifty-two seconds for the Guard to complete half a turn, and even that was just once.

_Fifty two …_

The wand was ripped off the plate, which went dark at once. She spun around. The light from the Guard was just a little white dot. There were no steps, no shouts. She had done it.

# # #

In the end, it was almost anticlimactic. She picked up the watch and slipped though the thick door, and it clicked softly shut behind her. _That was the first part. _She leaned against it, trying to calm herself. Her hands were still shaking; so badly that she almost lost the grip on the wands. She stuck them back into a pocket, and massaged her temples once again, through the cloth of the cap.

A nice, hot bubble bath sounded so tempting right now.

She shook off the thoughts, only now realising the difference. In contrast to the rest of the Ministry, the rooms of the Inner Security Office were brightly lit, somehow, without any of the light crossing the threshold.

On the right, next to the door she just came through, was a floor plan. The added wing was laid out like a T. She stood at the base, with many offices on both sides; the right arm held the cells and the left one only one big room, that was labelled 'Archive'.

Simple enough.

She began to walk towards her destination. The corridor was empty, and she avoided opening any doors. The longer no one knew of her presence, the greater her chances were.

The corridor that held the cells had another security door, but it was open. She frowned, but decided not to question her luck. Cautiously, she peered around it. Halfway down, on the right wall, was a metal cabinet. A bit before that, on the left wall, between two cell doors, was a small, round table and a chair.

And seated in the chair, with her back towards her, was the third Guard.

There was no way she could enter the cell without stomping over the Guard's feet. So this was where the stealth end evading ended. If she was lucky, she could at least take care of one Guard at a time, as the last had to be in one of the rooms, not able to intervene at once.

As quietly as possible, she sidled up to the sitting woman; stopping an arm's length away.

Then, in a sudden move, she seized a handful of the Guard's hair and, ignoring the startled shout, slammed the head onto the table. The two delicate front legs splintered under the force in a loud crash, and she heard an alarmed cry from around the corner followed by rapid footsteps. The last Guard came running.

The weight of the woman she rendered unconscious shifted forward in her seat, unbalancing the chair. It skidded out from beneath the Guard and deposited her onto the ground. At the same time, her hand opened, releasing the wand she had held.

Her own arm snapped forward in an attempt to snatch the falling wand, but she missed by the slightest margin. It slipped through her fingers as they closed only to clutch at air. It hit the tip of her boots at an odd angle and bounced off, rolling out into the corridor. She scrambled after it, but it was too late; the wand vanished mockingly below the cabinet on the other side, beyond her reach.

A red ray of light shot overhead. She whirled around, dodging a second spell the same colour as the first, both most likely stunners, and glimpsed the final Guard standing with her legs apart at the door.

She jumped sideways and behind the cabinet, using it as cover. A yellow-hued curse streaked past the space she had occupied only moments before. It hit the painting at the end of the corridor and set off a brief flash as the enchantment animating its occupant died, amplifying the force of the ensuing explosion. She instinctively shielded her face with her arms, the shower of splinters the size of toothpicks raking at but not piercing the leather covering her body.

"Come out. I don't know how you came in, but you won't be leaving except under ministerial custody. So do yourself a favour and make this easy."

She started to concentrate on the warmth that was always inside of her, feeling it spread, directing it towards her right arm.

"Don't make it harder than it has to be. We have clearance to use any and every curse if the situation calls for it."

She clenched her fist and opened it again, slowly; drawing the warmth out her hand, and concentrating it between her fingers.

"This is your last warning. I'm counting to three. One …"

Her hand glowed from the inside; she felt the fire shape itself into a globe that settled above her palm.

"… two …"

She crouched low, on her left knee, counterbalancing her weight with her left hand and stuck her head out of the cover. The Guard stood in the middle of the corridor, maybe fifteen yards away. With her right hand she reached back and hurled the fist-sized fireball towards the Guard.

"… thr– _Scutum Glacies!_"

The yellow-white fire expanded as soon it had left her hand. The compressed fire exceeded five times its original mass. It cast a fiery glow on the walls bordering the corridor that roved alongside it as it travelled towards the Guard, who had evoked a shimmering blue-green shield just in time. The fire sizzled and hissed as it dissipated, but the ice-based shield held, albeit not without emitting a substantial quantity of steam that wafted around its conjurer in a vaporous blanket.

She flung a second and a third fireball the Guard as the witch cleared the faint screen of steam, keeping her busy. With a quick jump, she was in the corridor, sprinting past the cabinet towards the Guard. She pressed the fire-assault, but it took a short time to create the next fireball after the previous had left her hand. The Guard capitalized on that weakness at once, starting to attack in-between.

She passed the broken table and lashed at it with her foot, knocking it onto its side and exposing its two remaining legs. Grasping them, she lifted it and held it in front of her.

A stunner ineffectually burst in a festive shower of scarlet sparks against her makeshift shield. She lifted it higher and caught a blue-tinged curse she didn't recognise, but which left a scorch mark and a burning stench that caused her nostrils to flare. She had closed half the distance when the Guard switched tactics.

"_Reducto!_"

By instinct, she intercepted the curse with the table, shouldering it and bracing for the impact, which sent her stumbling to the ground and cleaved the round table in two. She rolled out of the way of another curse and was back on her feet in a second, hurling the left half of the now useless shield at the Guard.

The woman ducked down, and swiftly sidestepped the second part of the table that followed, but it distracted her long enough.

She reached her just moments later. Jumping forward, she used her momentum to deliver a hefty kick with her right leg into the woman's midsection. Her leather boot connected with the body, the blow muffled by the cloth and producing only a dull _thump_. The Guard curved through the air, crashing into the wall beside the door, and slid down; coughing, the breath knocked out of her.

A fireball followed, slamming her in the chest, setting her clothes alight. The Guard screamed in pain, but remained lucid enough able to douse the fire with a fountain of water from her wand. The verbalization of the incantation was slurred, no doubt due to the heated air that infiltrated her lungs, but sufficed.

She had landed in a crouch, cushioning her landing. The woman stared up at her with a hateful expression. The fire had seared part of her skin and ruined the robe, exposing her arms and a fine silver bracelet on her left wrist. The wet cloth clung to her body; she had plain features; brown eyes, chestnut brown hair; the epitome of average.

In a flash, she was grappling with the Guard, grabbing her wandhand with her own. She clutched at the wrist, trying to get her to open her hand and release the wand, but the woman didn't give free reign. Both struggled for control, trying to point the wand at the other.

"You won't get away. Not if – _Negaeris!_"

The Guard cast the spell without warning.

At the last moment, she wrest the wand away from her. The tip pointed upwards, and the curse that would have suffocated her whizzed overhead, hitting the ceiling instead. However, that short moment of distraction was enough for the woman still pressed against the wall to rip her cap off with her the other hand, freeing her hair from its confinement.

Shock registered in her face as she looked closer.

"_Fleur Delacour?_"

# # #

_Putain. Qui es-tu?_

Fleur stared angrily down at the Guard, her face flushed, the body heated under the leather from the exertion. Her long hair had come loose, falling over her shoulder. So close. _So close_ to the goal, and there went her cover. And she didn't recognise her opponent.

"Who are you?"

The Guard laughed.

"Oh, you don't know me, you French hussy. But I know all about you. Fucking Harry Potter, while your fiancé is away in Egypt, why don't you?"

Fleur narrowed her eyes. Something in the way she said it reminded her of a certain someone, and no one could know that, anyway, except –

The bracelet. She was plain – too plain. The bracelet didn't fit her. Fleur's free hand snapped forward and ripped it off, the Guard trying in vain to stop her. Before her eyes, the woman's features seemed to meld, brown hair turning dark blonde, the eyes got greener, features sharpening …

– "_Anastasia!_"

# # #

Fleur started to grin. _Oh, this little mission suddenly got a lot more exciting._

"You."

"Yes, me."

"Whatever are you doing here?"

Anastasia rolled her eyes. "My job, of course, and trying to get him to tell me who his contact persons are."

She tilted her head, staring at Fleur.

"It seems that has sorted itself out, however. The real question is, what are _you_ doing here? Trying to free your little sex-toy?"

Fleur smirked.

"Oh, is someone angry? You seem a bit frustrated here, Ana. Didn't you get any since he left you for me, you poor thing? Somehow, that makes me unbelievable 'appy."

Anastasia's eyes literally sprayed sparks.

"So you have an affair with him. I _knew_ it. You may have fooled everyone, but not me. I knew you had something to do with it, the moment he brought up those excuses to break up with me. This is just like you. Weasley's not there, so you simply pump up your Aura and steal another person's boyfriend."

Fleur threw her head back and laughed.

"I, _stealing_ him? This is funny. Oh, how very wonderful. You truly believe that."

Anastasia stared at her furiously.

"God, I hate you Veelas. Always thinking that you have some nature-given right to have any man you want, any time, anywhere – just because you _can_. You don't even care for him, it's obvious. You care about nothing but yourselves. Feelings of others, existing relationships? To hell with it! _He was mine!_"

"You amuse me with your jealousy, Ana. Eet becomes you. Now, I would like nothing better than to rub eet in a bit more, but I have things do to. So I'll simply need zat –"

Lunging forward with her right hand, she ripped the wand out of Anastasia's grasp. The other woman reacted at once and tried to wrestle it back out of her hand, and the wand, still wet from the water, slipped out and fell to the ground.

Tangled, they rolled around on the ground. Anastasia seized her wand, but Fleur pressed her hand hard onto a patch of skin on her arm that was red and burnt. With a scream, she curled herself together, and tried to get Fleur's hands off of her, whimpering. Fleur clutched at the wand herself, but Anastasia kicked away, out of either's reach. It flew a few yards, then continued rolling down the corridor.

Fleur scrambled up to run after it, but Anastasia caught her. Dragging her to the ground again, she tried to get up herself.

"Oh no, you don't."

Fleur jumped up, using her left leg to get a safe stance. Bringing up her right knee, she swiftly turned over her hip and then spun on her heel, snapping the right leg outwards just as Anastasia passed her to the left. The bootleg and her shin hit the woman just below her neck and sent her once more flying backwards; through the open door, back into the main corridor.

Fleur followed her, and delivered another straight kick, just as she had risen again from the ground. Anastasia crashed into a door on the other side of the corridor, snapping its brittle hinges and fell backwards into the room beyond.

Fleur pounced on her lithely, but this time Anastasia raised her hands, and used Fleur's own momentum against her. She grabbed Fleur, and threw her over her head, against a table behind her.

Fleur groaned as the edge of the table dug painfully between her ribs, even though the leather of her suit cushioned the blow. She rose slowly, looking around. They were in a little cafeteria, it seemed. There was still a mug with tea on one table, Ana probably had been here when she arrived.

Fleur stalked over to her.

"You are wasting my time."

She grabbed her by the collar of her uniform, and lifted her up in front of her with her left hand, while gathering fire in her right. She ripped her fist open, and flung it forward, with all her might. The fireball impacted at Anastasia's unprotected chest, and she was thrown backwards in a raging inferno, crashing into the vitreous counter. The glass broke, and shards were flying all around, cutting into her skin.

Anastasia fell down on the other side, hitting her head on a rack with tableware, pushing it over. The porcelain rained down on her, burying her in a heap of dishes, mugs and other things. The noise was deafening.

_Finally._ Fleur turned to walk out of the room, when there was a sound from behind the counter. Disbelievingly, she watched as Anastasia emerged from under the broken porcelain, cut, bleeding from numerous gashes and huge patches of raw burnt skin, but still very much conscious.

"How?"

Anastasia coughed painfully, and sat up.

"There are normal, decent witches that can use a bit of wandless magic as well, you stupid Veela bint. Mine's a shield charm. Not terribly strong, but strong enough to annoy you, and that's all that matters, really. Now, let's see …"

On the wall behind the counter was a live-version of the Inner-Security-crest; an actual shield in front of two crossed rapiers. Anastasia took down one of the weapons.

"Let's see how you like this, then."

She advanced on Fleur, who dodged her first thrust, and quickly stepped past the other woman. With a few steps, she was behind the counter and took down the second rapier. She looked at it, and started to scoff immediately. That was no rapier, that was an épée, made to look like one, by adding a replica of an historical hilt.

_How very typical. Trust the English to fake even a crest, ces barbares incultes._

She flexed the blade and held the weapon in front of her. At least it was missing the blunted head. Anastasia came towards her again, the épée in front of her. Fleur raised an eyebrow.

"Don't hurt yourself. It's sharp."

As an answer, the weapon sprang forward, the point hitting her on her stomach, but the thrust had been diagonal and it glanced off on the black leather.

Fleur looked at the place where the blade had struck her, then at Anastasia, who was closing in again.

"We had this long since coming. We'll settle this now, once and for all. The change of shift isn't for another hour, so we'll be … uninterrupted."

Her eyes flickered back to the door for a split-second.

When Fleur didn't react, she added flippantly: "Come on! I'll even make this official: I challenge you to a duel, be victory to the one who has rendered the opponent unable fight any longer. The winner then gets to freely decide the loser's fate."

Fleur felt the magic surge as the challenge was accepted and narrowed her eyes.

"Isn't that the chance you always dreamed of? I know you, Fleur."

"You don't know what you're getting into, girl," she hissed. "En garde."

She raised her épée, putting her right feet forward, and the left in a right angle a bit behind, assuming duelling stance, a few feet away from her opponent.

"Prête? Allez!"

Both their movements were severely hindered by the confined space; something that Fleur sought to remedy. She went into the offensive at once; advancing in small rapid steps with the blade stretched out, forcing Anastasia to retreat along the broken counter. They neared the entrance, the glass crunching under their feet.

Trying to regain some of the lost ground, Anastasia suddenly thrusted her épée forwards in a lunge, trying to hit Fleur's unprotected head. Fleur parried the attack, however, and forced her opponent into a blade lock, closing in. This time, the lack of space worked in her favour, because Anastasia had no room to evade the close proximity.

Less than a foot away, she suddenly released the pressure against Ana's épée from below, and pulled her arm down, moving it behind her and over the top of her shoulder in a small arch.

Anastasia was still surprised, and couldn't formulate her defence in time, leaving her chest undefended. She saw the weapon coming from ahead, angling down, and her eyes widened. Scrambling backwards, she tried to put distance between them, but it sent her off balance and she slipped on the shards.

That was the only thing that saved her from being jabbed directly into the chest with the sharp blade and ending the fight before it really begun.

She hit the ground hard, crawling backwards as Fleur advanced further on her. She jumped to her feet and into the main area of the cafeteria, with Fleur following her. Leaping onto a table, Anastasia tried to use this position to gain better access to Fleur's head as she came out from behind the counter.

She thrust downwards, and only a reflex saved Fleur from being pierced in her eye. The point of the épée left a long gash across her left cheek. Fleur stepped away from the table and lowered her blade for a moment. Slowly, she raised her hand and touched her cheek, livid. The fingers were coated in red.

"You little cheat. Whereever does eet say zat ze furniture was allowed? Now you made me angry."

Anastasia laughed scornfully, still standing on the table.

"Oh, _that_ is rich, coming from you. You're in absolutely no position at all to tell _me_ about cheating. Remember which one of us is engaged here? I –"

She let out a yelp, as Fleur had used her distraction to move to the rectangular table and capsize it. Flailing about, she fell down backwards on the other side, and Fleur swung herself over the edge, landing crouched and using the momentum to thrust the épée down.

Anastasia rolled out the way at the very last moment, and the blade only struck the empty floor. Pushing herself up, she assumed duelling stance once again and their fight continued. The exchanged a few quick thrusts, the steel clicking constantly from their blades connecting.

Anastasia made a sudden lunge towards Fleur's chest, but Fleur moved her épée sideways, deflecting her opponent's attack. The blade passed her harmlessly, leaving Anastasia completely open, and she riposted immediately with a swift jab.

There wasn't even enough time for Anastasia to erect her shield. The épée followed the direction it was given and the sharp point burrowed itself into her abdomen. Anastasia's mouth formed a small 'o' shape, surprise registering at the thin blade that was protruding from her body, before the pain set in.

Only now did she seem to realise that they were fighting with actual weapons, and that Fleur was wearing a leather suit that gave a little protection, while she herself had just her magical shield, and was already bruised and injured from before.

Fleur pressed her advantage to deliver another quick thrust, and again, she couldn't react fast enough, to dodge, at least. The weapon pierced her skin, but hit one of the rips, preventing it from doing deeper damage.

Anastasia grimaced and retreated backwards, putting another table between the two of them.

Fleur cocked her head.

"You are much too uptight, Ana. You desperately need to get yourself a man to work out ze tension. I even promise, you can keep 'im, this time."

But Anastasia wasn't yet defeated. The words sparked her anger to new heights, and she clutched the grip of her épée, hard.

"Not every woman has to sleep with someone every other hour, you sex-crazed oversized bird. Sticking this thing in you will relax me quite a bit, thank you very much – I'll be rid of you, and have my boyfriend back."

Fleur moved slowly around the table, the weapon raised in front of her. By now, they had almost completed a full circle.

"You are delusional. 'Arry doesn't want you. Which is too sad – we could 'ave 'ad a ménage à trois, and you could stick other things in me. His tongue, eet is divine, n'est-ce pas?"

This stopped Anastasia, who until then had moved along, keeping constantly half the table length between them.

"You are disgusting," she sputtered. "We … his tongue? – _eew_!"

Fleur laughed loudly at her opponent's face.

"Ana, tu es une _prude_."

Fleur received a withering glare in return, but was unfazed as she closed the remaining space between them, once again reaching fighting distance. She advanced further, but Anastasia offered some resistance.

"At least I don't go offering it to everyone in sight. I bet that's how you came in, isn't it? Blasting the Guards with your Veela-Charm, and playing the easy French tart. Not that you were ever anything else."

Feinting a high attack that Fleur parried, she ducked below her defence and delivered a quick thrust to her stomach, but most of it was absorbed by the leather.

Fleur looked at her pityingly.

"The angry words of everyone who is envious that they _'aven't_ anything to offer in ze first place. Or, not enough to keep their boyfriends, n'est-ce pas, Ana? But don't be sad. He left you for nothing short of a Veela. And I assure you, he never complained – which is apparently more than can be said for his time with you."

Growling angrily, Anastasia recovered, and they resumed exchanging thrusts, moving backwards and forwards in small, quick jumps, without either one really gaining the upper hand.

Fleur attacked again, her blade approaching the target and Anastasia started to counter, but this time Fleur used her wrist to twist her épée in a small circle, neatly passing under Anastasia's defence. The point of the weapon touched her just below her chest, the blade bending and not moving any further; it was as if was meeting an unseen barrier.

_Her shield_.

Fleur recovered, parrying another attack from Anastasia by directing her épée over her left shoulder. Then she attacked again, moving through the lunge in a fluid motion, shifting the majority of her weight from her back leg to her front, to have a solid stance for the second part of the attack. She brought her back leg forward as well, and then advanced again, moving without interruption, reaching deep into Anastasia's defence and executing a perfect fleche attack, which once again hit only the shield.

But even though Anastasia shielded herself, Fleur was now gaining ground and her opponent had to retreat, through the broken door of the cafeteria, back into the corridor, where Fleur continued driving Anastasia along in front of her; into the direction of the open security door.

# # #

The fight didn't last much longer. Anastasia was already handicapped from the kicks and the throw through the counter and the rack, and now bleeding from several wounds all over her body.

She was severely outclassed; Fleur wasn't doing much more than playing with her and both knew it. Anastasia could barely muster enough strength to hold up the épée anymore. Fleur had been quickly driving her all along the cell corridor, and now there was no other place to retreat, the corridor ended here, she was backed against the wall.

Fleur was staring at her maliciously, a vision of cruel beauty; the long, blond hair contrasting sharply with the dark jumpsuit, the lovely face, marred by an ugly grimace, and the steel of her épée, dyed red.

"Did you ever make him scream?"

A hard thrust that Anastasia weakly tried to parry, but it wasn't enough and the point left a deep wound at her hip. She bit her lip to not cry out in pain, but Fleur continued relentlessly, striking at her all over the body now, with sharp stabs.

"Why, just yesterday, he was most vocal – if I remember right, eet was something like 'yes',"

… _thrust …_

"'more',"

… _thrust …_

"and 'Ana never did zat'."

With the final attack, Fleur knocked her opponent's blade out of her weakened grip. It fell onto the ground with a clang, and rolled out of her reach.

Fleur stopped to savour the beautiful vision of helpless fury on her rival's face, slumped to the ground and backed into a corner, bleeding heavily, her clothing torn and dirty. Then she lowered her own épée.

"As eet seems, I'm quite a few leagues above you, little girl. You are simply not good enough, in every sense. You are standing with your back to ze wall."

But then, she noted a sudden change in her demeanour. Through the grimace of pain, there was, all at once, a gleeful defiance.

"Oh really?"

Anastasia was looking past her, smiling widely. "I believe I know something you don't."

Abruptly, Fleur felt her head being pulled back by her hair with enough force that the glossy strands threatened to vacate her scalp, and a second arm reached around her and pressed something sharp at her throat.

"Drop your weapon and turn around."

The voice was a bit unsteady. She guessed it was Guard from the door, who had gotten back up to her feet. What a shame.

She pondered her options. She could blast her away with a bit of fire, but she could only take care of one of them at a time and she was feeling the strain anyway. All the fighting had tired her as well, even if she was loathe to admit it; and she had used more of her Veela magic than in a long time, at least in her untransformed state. Her eyes darted around. There was no place to jump behind and hide. The only thing that was here was …

Ana's wand. From where she had kicked it, down the corridor, it had come to a rest lying not three feet to her right, and it fitted her well enough.

There was a sharp tug at her hair.

"Now."

She dropped the épée, and moved her head a bit. The pressure on her throat had lessened, once she'd dropped the blade, and that would prove to be the Guard's undoing. Anastasia followed her line of sight, and Fleur witnessed the moment her gaze rested the wand and made the connection, her eyes widening.

For the next seconds the time seemed strangely stretched.

Fleur saw Anastasia darting forward … and then like any elastic matter, time snapped back with a vengeance.

Fleur dropped to the side, out of the Guard's clasp, her arm stretching. Anastasia had almost reached the wand, but Fleur conjured her fire for the final time. She launched it at Anastasia, blasting her away from the wand … the entire ending of the corridor went alive in a blazing rage of fire, hot, red, but it didn't harm her … her fingers touched wood … she hit the ground heavily, landing her right side, feeling a small burst of pain from her shoulder and pointed the wand backwards … _Stupefy!_

The red beam left the wand and hit the second Guard, directly behind her. Fleur heard her collapsing on the ground.

# # #

For a long time Fleur didn't move from her position lengthways in the corridor. Then, she gingerly raised her hand and touched her throat, wincing at the pain from her shoulder. Relieved, she noted that the knife now lying next to her had only nicked her skin above her throat, far from being life-threatening.

She propped herself up, using her left, uninjured arm. The Guard was stretched out unconsciously behind her, Anastasia was slumped in the corner, badly burned, defeated and exhausted, both physically and magically, having used her last reserves to prevent being burnt alive in the burst of fire moments before.

She was looking at Fleur bitterly, coughing, and spitting out something red. Her left hand was pressing onto one of the wounds at her abdomen.

"Congratulations, Fleur. You've won, I've got nothing more to give. A Veela always gets what she wants. Isn't it so? Now take it all. My fate is at your hands."

Fleur was staring at her, unmoving.

"Come on! Have you lost your command of English? Fais-le! Achève-moi."

Slowly, she began to shake her head.

"Non. Je ne pense pas … I feel, eet wouldn't quite satisfy me. I shall decide for something different."

Anastasia stared at her, weary.

"What do you have cooked up now in that birdbrain of yours? Isn't it enough for the mighty Veela to _simply_ kill me?"

Fleur smiled thinly.

"No, not quite, I admit. You'll live … but you will not tell anyone what you know about me personally, and me and 'Arry, including what 'appened here, until eet me so pleases that you do."

Fleur saw the outrage blossom on her face, and felt very complacent, knowing that it would drive her spare to _know_, but not being able to tell anyone.

"That is well within my rights. Say eet."

"You manipulative bitch," she spat. "Oh, I can see it in your eyes. It's revolting. You simply _love_ having that kind of power over people, being able to tell them what to do and what not, don't you?"

"Quite. It amuses me. _Say eet_."

Soon enough the rage gave way to resignation and she slumped together once again, knowing that she was in no position to refuse, having lost with her own terms turned against her.

"Fine. I'll do it," she said sullenly.

"You simply shouldn't go throwing around challenges for which you 'ave no plan for winning, Ana."

Her eyes flashed once more in anger, but she bit back the immediate response. Fleur nodded satisfied. Anastasia started to speak.

"I, Anastasia Scrimgeour-Dupont, will not …

# # #

He was decidedly bored. It was dark, but he wasn't tired. The security doors were soundproof, so he hadn't even been able to talk with the Guards. Shame, the red-headed one was quite attractive, even if she probably looked completely different in truth.

Sitting on the small cot in the cell, he tapped his feet impatiently. What could possibly take her so long?

The lock on the door clicked. He rose. Finally.

"'Arry? Are you in there?"

The door opened, and in the light from the corridor, he saw … fucking hell. A figure in black. Fleur in a figure-hugging black leather suit with a few strands of hair escaping from under an equally black cap.

He eyed her up and down.

"This is certainly a very nice outfit. Did you put it on just for me?"

She didn't say a word, instead slowly walked over to him, pushing him backwards, against the wall. She was effectively trapping him, but really didn't care at the moment and started to kiss her hungrily.

She grabbed his head and deepened the kiss, simultaneously starting to rub herself against him. Her felt her leather clad breasts press against his chest, when she abruptly broke the kiss and smashed the head she held hard against the rough stone wall. It hurt like a bitch.

"Enough playing. Where eez eet?"

Uh-oh. Harry's vision swam. This was not good. Her accent was only this pronounced when she was furious … well, that or when she about to come, but that was beside the point. It would be unwise to anger her further, especially as she head his head still jammed between her hands.

"Have you lost something?"

Her face contorted with rage and she let out a snarl. Her blue eyes flashed to a deep red and her lovely features began to shimmer slightly in the air as if something lay behind them.

"Bad day, then?"

Her hand moved from the head to his neck, clamping down with an unnatural strength and cutting of his air supply. She opened her mouth, and the words came out with a distinctly rough hiss.

"'Arry Potter, I am _zis_ cloze to tranzform myzelf, and fry you like a chicken. Ze troubles you 'ave given me, eez unbelievable. I 'ave a 'eadache, because I 'ad to let those two swines of Eenglish Guards stare at me and grope me, and then listen to your leetle delusional ex-geerlfriend, while she thought she could beat me een fencing. I am not een ze mood. I know you took eet, so. Where. Eez. Eet."

Harry started to feel light-headed. In an attempt to free himself, he suddenly pushed forward, surprising Fleur. She lost her balance and started to fall with a startled yelp, pulling him with her; but at least the pressure on his throat lessened.

They landed on the floor in a tangled heap, with Harry on top of her. Incidentally, his hand had ended up somewhere between her thighs. Unabashedly, he tried to move it up a bit, but she clamped her legs together, trapping his hand.

"I _really_ like this outfit," he panted, pinning her down with his elbow; but not for long, as she overpowered him with a growl, and rolled around, reversing their positions. In a flash, Anastasia's wand was drilled into his chest.

"You tell me now, 'Arry Potter, or I zwear I weell kill you."

Harry started laughing.

"You would kill me anyway. I know too much."

She cocked her head, and started to grind into him, thoughtfully.

"Indeed I may, but if you tell me now, you weell die 'appy."

He grabbed her legs to keep her from moving.

"I don't want to die anymore than to sit in this boring cell, happy or not. Why do you think I took it in the first place? I knew you would come for me, in the _unlikely_ event that I somehow ended up in a cell. And wouldn't you know, it worked. You're here."

His voice went flat.

"Now, Fleur. Your little plan was clever, but here's the catch. If I die, you'll never get it."

He tipped at his head.

Fleur stopped short; staring at him, completely floored.

"Non … c'est imposible …"

Angrily, she ripped her cap off. The long sweep of platinum-bond hair fell past her shoulders, seemingly shining in the dark.

"You could not 'ave …"

Harry stared at her, hard.

"I killed Voldemort, Fleur. Nothing is impossible here. You've got two choices: take me with you, or say good-bye to your mission."

She stared down at him, now clearly frustrated.

"I could take you somewhere else, and make you tell me."

"When Voldemort couldn't? I'm quite resistant, to anything you can think up." He shrugged. "Maybe you'll find something to make me. Maybe not. But why bother? Take me with you, and you'll get it for free."

"I don't –"

At this moment a shrill, wailing noise started to sound, piercing the nightly silence at the Ministry. And it didn't stop, but seemed to grow louder which each passing second. Lights flashed to life in the previously unlit cell.

The stared at each other.

"Merde."

"I'd say, someone knows of your presence."

And then, all hell broke loose.

* * *

**Glossary:**

_Merde. – Shit.  
__Parfait. – Perfect.  
__Gros cochon. – Fat pig.  
__Putain. Qui es-tu? – Damn. __Who are you?  
__Ces barbares incultes. – These philistine barbarians.  
__En garde. Prête? Allez! – On guard. Ready? Go! (Fencing)  
__Ana, tu es une prude. – Ana, you are a prude.  
__Fais-le! __Achève-moi. – Do it! Finish me off.  
__Non. Je ne pense pas … – No. __I think not …  
__Non … c'est __imposible__ … – No … that's not possible …  
__N'est-ce pas? – Isn't it?, weren't they? etc._

Tell me what you think :)


	2. Episode One: Saint Tropez at Night

**Disclaimer:** If this was mine, it'd be me lying in the lounge with Inès and Aimée.

**A/N:** Here's the (slightly Thanksgiving-delayed) chapter. As usual, thanks to _**Andromalius**_, for making the chapter as good as it is (credit especially for reworking the Bar-Fight; it you like it, it's thanks to his work). To _**Tinn**_, who was a great help with the French parts, and to the folks at DLP who gave feedback.

* * *

**T**HE **F**RENCH **A**FFAIR

**Episode One:** Saint-Tropez at Night

_**Gassin, Southern France, about three weeks prior …**_

"Angleterre: Opération Propagande – Un mois s'est écoulé depuis l'incident tragique de la finale de la coupe du monde de Quidditch, où Anastasia Scrimgeour-Dupont, 24 ans, fille du député anglais aux Relations Magiques Internationales, a été agressée –"

"Would you mind translating it? You _know_ that my French is limited to 'oui' and 'va te faire foutre'."

Harry was standing on the patio, which boasted a spectacular view over the gulf of St Tropez and the mountains of the Massif des Maures on the other side; the open door of the bungalow to his back. The water almost a thousand feet below, usually as azure as the name of the coast promised, now glimmered a deep flaming red as the sun descended far out over the Mediterranean Sea, sending the last rays of another day full of brilliant light into the bay.

Without turning around, he was completely certain that Ana was frowning and giving him a stern look. And now, any moment …

"You've been here for how long, Harry?"

He smiled at her predictability and rested his hand on the rail, watching the small specks of white dotted onto the sheet of water, Muggle yachts.

Well, how long had it been? Time flowed in a beguiling way here … Something like five summers, that sounded about right. He'd stayed here ever since he had defeated Voldemort and decided that it was time to go and see the world. Money wasn't an issue, but he never got very far.

Somehow, he'd settled here, in the French Midi, under the bright sun of the Provence; between myriads of colours, blinding white chalk, ochre earth, green cypresses; somewhere between the hard, clear blue above, and fields of endless violet, lazy air thick with a thousand different fragrances, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.

That was the Provence. A place to loose oneself, to lie on a hill under the hot sun and dream the day away while listening to the cicadas. No place was quite like here. Painters and poets alike enthused about it.

In other words, for Harry, it was quite boring.

Especially in winter, when all that was left of the typical Provençal nature was the harsh Mistral sweeping across plains and through valleys. Harry spent his time at the coast. The wizarding district of Nice, and Beauxbatons, somewhere off the city, that was more to his liking.

Of course, Ana knew all that. The question was purely rhetorical, and right on cue she continued.

"After five years, you'd think that you would've _at least_ done one of the Magifix Language Lessons. Really Harry, 'Yes' and 'Go fuck yourself'? It's _rude_."

He snorted.

"Who the hell came up with that stupid name, by the way?"

Finally turning his back to the bay, he watched Ana standing in the doorway of his current home, a summer residence that Walburga Black had received as a gift from her husband sometime. Now it was his, like Grimauld Place.

Ana shook her head at his wilful ignorance, but he didn't particularly care. He'd earned the right to tell everyone go fuck themselves the moment Voldemort had died at his hand, and after a while, he'd found that he had no qualms with doing exactly that.

"Do you want to tell me what's in the paper or not?"

Her green eyes scrutinised him, before she sighed and let it go. She crumbled up the paper and walked over, joining him at the rail.

"More of the same. Our Ministry is running a 'propaganda campaign', just because they claim that it was rampant Death Eaters that attacked me at the Quidditch Worldcup. Obviously, the scum is allowed to hide here, behind the Border. Even if the French aren't actively helping them, they certainly don't go out of their way to round them up. I really hope he does something. It's disgusting."

'He' was her uncle, but more importantly, 'he' was currently Britain's Minister of Magic – Rufus Scrimgeour. However, Harry hadn't been very convinced of the identity of her attackers then, and he wasn't convinced now.

"I've told you I'm not so sure those were Death Eaters. They didn't wear any white masks, only hoods, when I fought them. You saw them."

Ana shrugged, leaning onto the rail.

"Who else could it have been?"

Then she turned her head to look at him, grinning.

"But at least they got one thing right. It's _been_ a month since then. We have our first anniversary!"

Harry suppressed a groan. What was it with women? He wanted nothing more than a casual relationship. Surely there was no need for flowers, gifts or whatever foofaraw you normally did, then? Well, he could always hope, if futilely.

"Great. So why don't we pay a visit to that club in Nice that just opened, and afterwards, we celebrate in the house by –"

"Harry!"

She'd apparently guessed what he was going to say and looked at him, scandalised.

"I know it must be hard for you, but you could at least try to _pretend_ that you can think about something else every now and then."

Harry grinned ruefully.

"I would never pretend to be something I'm not."

She shook her head at him again.

"_Anyway_, you prat.I was thinking of visiting a nice restaurant. Muggle, not magical, so that we can go unrecognized. Down in the town."

She pointed to the scatter of yellow at the coast, the famous site of St Tropez, partially hidden behind the hillside. He followed her look for a while, thinking of nothing in particular. Learning that had been quite hard.

A breeze picked up, playing with her open hair. He moved closer, slinging an arm around her, then drew her in for a kiss. After a while, she broke away, leaning her head onto his shoulder.

"So?"

"If you want to, we'll go. Although I don't know how you want to get a table on that short a notice."

"Let that be my concern. Go put on something nice."

Harry looked down on himself until he found the first piece of clothing. The shorts _were_ nice. Bright and comfortable. But of course, she meant Ana-nice. Not Harry-nice.

# # #

It was already dark as both emerged from the shade of the pines half an hour later; below the Citadel which sat enthroned above the little village. They walked leisurely down the hill; past the strutting peacocks and towards the glittering town lights. Harry now wore slacks and a thin shirt. Ana had insisted.

But at least he liked her dress.

They were in no hurry, so they decided to take the slightly longer route to the harbour, through the centre of the village. But even so, it wasn't half a mile to walk. St Tropez wasn't exactly a big town.

Under the plane trees of the Place des Lices people were still playing pétanque. The clicking of the balls in the sand square followed them for a while as they walked past; entering the old town with its narrow streets and flower-bedecked houses. People were milling around in every direction as Harry and Ana walked over the palm-covered Place de la Garonne and further down the street. Groups of tourists were standing in front of the new_ Gendarmerie Nationale_, most likely in search for the old, famous one.

It began to get noticeably more populated; the harbour was not far away and it was the most active place of the town, the centre of St Tropez nightlife. And then, there were cars. Many of them, in fact, and quite nice ones as well. Harry watched a throng of people ahead of them that had gathered around a Ferrari and a Porsche. Not that he was an expert or anything, but even he could tell apart those two types, especially if they were parking directly next to another.

They were blocking the road, of course, but that was nothing new; and nobody cared, since everyone was busy gawking. A special Ferrari, then, Harry pondered. Because really, they were not that uncommon here. In any case, the driver, tanned, bald and with black sunglasses, attracted many stares. Or perhaps it was the wonderful blonde creature with that itsy-bitsy Bikini in red, who just now climbed into the passenger seat, accepting Mr. Bald-and-Tanned's offer to go for a spin.

Well, she certainly attracted Harry's stare. Especially when she proved just _how_ long her legs were in entering the open car without bothering to open the door. He tilted his head, thoughtfully. Perhaps getting one of those cars wasn't all that stupid an idea. He could drive up here, and then –

_Ouch._

He grimaced. Then again, perhaps he could manage without it. Ana had sharp nails, and while he actually didn't mind them at his back, they were currently digging into his arm. He turned his head away from the car speeding off to find her glaring at him.

"Er … nice car?" he ventured hopefully.

Ana's expression didn't soften. If anything, her eyes narrowed even further. She pulled at his arm sharply, and started to push her way through the crowd, without all that much regard for the people she was pushing away.

"Certainly, Harry. If your definition of 'car' has two legs, two tits, no brain and no clothing."

"I'm male, Ana. We can't help but look at nice … cars," Harry protested, while trying to keep up with her. "It's the same thing like – uh, with brooms. Yes, brooms. You know what I mean, both have those really great curves – think about the handle, and it's shiny – and – and fast –"

"You're not helping your case any," she informed him.

"What case? There is no case. And anyway, it doesn't matter _where_ I look. You know that it's St Tropez, they're everywhere."

Ana didn't even grace that sentence with a look. Harry sighed. He was right, of course. Shiny cars and girls in sparse clothing milled all around them, sometimes in company, sometimes still searching for it. After all, the air was still mild, summer not yet completely departed, even in the last week of September. But Ana was a woman, and as such didn't want to hear _right_ at the moment. So in order to save the dinner from frosty silence, he tried to appease her.

"If you slow down, I could look at _you_ for a change. How's that sound?"

She didn't respond, but the grip on his arm noticeably loosened, and she slowed down to a more leisurely pace. Mentally, Harry congratulated himself.

# # #

They reached the Old Port moments later. To their right flashed the bright red marquee of one of the cafes invitingly over the heads of the people, and to their left, some way down the street, he spotted the memorial of some historically important figure looking proudly over the harbour. Harry had been down here a few times. It had been July then, peak season; now it was less jammed than he remembered. Still, there were more than enough people for the painters and musicians and jugglers and who knew what else to have an audience.

Ana and Harry walked around their sites; alongside the glitzy clubs and bars and the many restaurants flanked by a flurry of pavement tables and chairs outside, where people sat on the waterfront and watched the white, massed luxury yachts lining the harbour and their rich owners and guests dining on deck.

The port overflowed with boats, some of the bigger ships even anchored in the bay with the annual regatta drawing near, the traditional end-of-season. And the brightly lit ships after sundown had the same effect as the cars did earlier – where polished brass, glass and steel glinted, young women were attracted, and Harry saw more than once one of them beckoned up the gangway. He tried to not look too often at the pert bottoms walking up and even was mostly successful.

Ana meandered down the quay, towards one of the more fancy restaurants at the end, Harry guessed. Before that was one of the largest ships in the harbour. Music spilled down, as well as laughter and rapid French; the huge aftdeck was crowded with people. Someone had decided to already start the party; a bit earlier than the others.

Near the gang-way sat a short man in a white garb. He surveyed the passer-bys with a vacant expression, but perked up when he spotted the both of them. A petite dark-haired girl joined him, walking down from down the ship, looking at Harry. She couldn't have been all that much taller than five feet and a few inches, but it seemed to fit her profile. She certainly wasn't unattractive; with that typical Mediterranean look. When her loose strands of hair caught the light from the ship, Harry saw that it wasn't an actual black, but a dark brown.

"Bonsoir," she called.

Harry paused in mid-step, forcing Ana to stop as well. She looked at him questioningly.

"What's up, Harry?"

"Can I help you?" he asked who was about the fourteenth looker of the evening, Ana not included. He'd tried to count.

Number Fourteen smiled.

"Ah. You're English?"

She spoke almost without a French accent. A pity really, Harry thought. When employed in the right way, it was quite sexy.

"Would you like to come aboard?

_Well, what do you know._ He opened his mouth to say that certainly, they'd like to, when the nails were back. He shot Ana an annoyed look.

"Stop it."

"_So_ sorry, Harry. Must've been a reflex."

The brunette had by now reached at the quay. She was in Bikini only as well, a beaded variety, but had thrown some kind of colourful Kaftan over it. It ended just above her hip, and showed off another nice pair of legs. Perhaps he _did_ have a fixation.

She renewed her smile.

"I'm Inès. We're having a little party on the ship. You'd be most welcome."

She was concentrating on Harry, making it clear who 'you' was, and ignoring Ana.

Ana didn't like to be ignored.

"I'm _sure_ it would be lovely," she cut in sweetly, while glaring daggers at the woman. "But I'm afraid _we_ have a table reservation for dinner. Perhaps another time."

Her hand moved away from Harry's arm and onto his shoulder, pulling him towards her. He wisely kept his mouth shut. He knew when he was regulated to the role of the bystander. That much he'd learned verythoroughly, through trial and error. Well, mostly error.

But Inès flashed him a bright smile which infuriated Ana, and looked at her possessive hand on him calculatingly.

"I see … A shame, we could have had so much fun, I'm certain. Are you really sure? You could bring your friend as well, if you want."

Oh, that simply wasn't fair. So _not_ fair. Harry looked at the girl accusingly. She knew that it wasn't his choice, and now she was teasing him. And next to him, Ana looked ready to explode.

"_Not one word_," she hissed to him.

_Huh._ Harry looked at Ana, thoughtful. Well, that he'd already known.

To his Number Fourteen who was called Inès, she said: "Yes. He is sure. _Perfectly_ sure. And we have to get going."

"Well, in that case …"

In turning, Inès threw him a quick, conspiratorial wink.

"Do be careful in the restaurant; I recently heard of bags going missing while people were dining," she called over her shoulder, already walking back up the gangway.

Next to Harry, Ana froze.

"Wait!"

Inès turned back around, her dark eyes sparkling mirthfully.

"Yes?"

"What … what did you just say?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Why, I believe I warned you about a thief that people were complaining about. Is something wrong?"

She pointed to Ana's red handbag

Ana swallowed and then answered in a voice that all but dripped with disgust at herself. Her words sounded very much like she had chewed them, before spitting them out.

"Perhaps we do have time for a short visit, after all. Does the invitation still stand?"

Inès didn't even bother to hide her triumphant smile.

"But _of course_. I'm glad you had a change of heart. It's never too late to change opinions."

Ana gritted her teeth but said nothing, moving onto the gangway with as much speed as she could muster without compromising her grace Harry was left behind standing thunderstruck, staring at Inès open-mouthed.

"O-okay …"

What the hell had just happened? Ana had just willingly accepted defeat. He couldn't wrap his head around that. Knowing her, that would haunt her for weeks. What did Inès know that he didn't? He was so completely missing something here.

"Don't worry about it," whispered Inès, apparently having guessed his thoughts. "Just enjoy tonight. It'll be so much fun, I promise."

In front of them, Ana harrumphed. Harry pondered telling Inès that yes, while tonight might indeed prove fun, at least as long as he wasn't anywhere near Ana, tomorrow when they both were alone together would be not fun at all. But then he simply shook his head.

Inès flashed him another smile and offered him a hand to help him up the gangway, but accidentally forgot to let go after he was on the wooden plank. Ahead of them, Ana was fuming silently. She had to walk ahead, because the gangway was just made for two people to walk side by side, and next to Harry, Inès didn't look like she wanted to make way anytime soon; her warm hand around his swinging lightly.

Now that they were directly next to another, he could see that she indeed just measured to his shoulder. But after that display, he wasn't likely to underestimate her on the basis of her height. He couldn't shake the feeling that she used that to her advantage more than once already.

When they reached the ship, Harry had regained enough composure to extract his hand from her grip, carefully but firmly. Teasing Ana and riling her up a bit was fine, but there was a certain limit of how far he would go. For all her faults, Ana was still his girlfriend. And the aftermath, when they were back at the bungalow, would be heated enough already as it was.

Inès grinned at him, and walked a few paces ahead, passing Ana, who didn't move out of the way, so that she had to walk around her. Harry looked at her. They were standing in a corner of the crowded aftdeck. There was a bar, where many people gathered, talking and laughing, moving on to a seating area afterwards.

"Ana?"

Her jaw was clenched together tightly. She looked murderously at the retreating back of Inès.

"The nerve! The fucking nerve of that hussy!"

_Al-right_. If Ana was _swearing_, then something was definitely afoot. It confused Harry even more about her decision to come aboard. It wasn't as if Inès hadn't made her intentions crystal clear.

"Wha– "

"She knew I couldn't say no!" she spat, still not looking at him. "Not after – not – and now she's exploiting it. Oh, if I didn't – I – I'd tear her to shreds! Think she can fling herself at you, does she? A good trashing, that's what she needs. And then we'll see who has the last laugh."

Harry didn't doubt that at all. Ana was a force to be reckoned with when in possession of her wand – as long as she had it with her being the key. At the Quidditch Finals, she hadn't; a fact that irked her still and which Harry reminded her of every now and then. But now, she rounded on him.

"We'll talk later about your behaviour."

"But I didn't do anything," Harry protested.

Her index finger drilled into his chest.

"My point exactly. Now let's get this damn party over with. I –"

"Hello!"

Harry looked up. The man who'd been sitting looking over the gangway had joined them, bowing gallantly. Upon the first impression, Harry thought he had robbed a goldsmith. Everywhere glinted gold. Each finger sported a ring, the one adorning his index finger crowned by a diamond. He wore a chain, and in smiling revealed a gold tooth.

He very much looked like a ridiculously overpriced Christmas tree.

"Yes?" Ana asked irritated. Harry nudged her, and she threw him a dark look, but refrained from saying more.

"May I –"

He looked behind him in mid-sentence, then back to the both of them.

"Welcome. I'm the ship-owner. I heard you talk – dinner. I invite you?"

Harry looked at him funnily. He certainly had had the most peculiar expression on his face. Now it was blank. Harry shrugged, turning to Ana.

"How about it?"

"Might as well," she grumbled.

Harry extended his hand.

"Harry Potter. This is Anastasia Dupont. Nice to meet you."

The man stared at Harry vacantly, then smiled happily; rubbing his hands and making the rings clang together.

"Fine, fine. You follow?"

Harry and Ana shared a dubious look.

He led them through the people inside the yacht. It was a spacious living-room area, with very comfy-looking armchairs and a couch on one side and a small table and a bookshelf on the other. In the corner stood a house-plant. Upon first glance, nothing seemed to indicate to Harry that he was aboard a ship. It could've been just as well a room in any luxury apartment, in any metropolis of the world.

They walked over the thick white carpet, towards a low credenza, that visually bordered the room. The man pointed past it, to the oval table behind it.

"Dinner there."

Suddenly, his head snapped around, to the door where they just entered the ship. A man in a black suit passed by outside. The short man leading them stumbled and almost walked into the panelled wall next to the passageway to the dining area. Reflexively, Harry caught his fall and helped him to stand.

"Is everything alright?"

He looked up, confused, but then his face cleared.

"Yes … yes. It's fine."

Harry watched him doubtfully, but it wasn't his place to say anything more. Searching for a harmless topic, he made a sweeping gesture over the luxurious interior.

"It's a nice yacht."

A strange look passed over his face for some reason, and he rubbed his forehead, but then smiled.

"Ah. I see. No, Mr. Potter, the ship is a 'she'. A yacht like this always is. Her name is _Sabuha_. 'Aurora' or 'Dawn' in your language, I believe. The finer points of English still elude me. But I do like to think that she is nice."

He winked at Harry.

"She has a length of 165 feet, a Feadship, built in –"

His expression turned vacant again.

"Dinner, yes, yes. We all have dinner together, yes? Here, go."

He pushed the door fully open. Ana was already inside, and Harry took one last look at the man and his odd behaviour, before he shrugged mentally and pushed it out of his mind. It wasn't his problem. He walked into the next room, and the temperature plummeted until it felt twenty degrees below zero. Ana was standing at his end of the room, arms crossed in front of her, glaring at a by now well-known form at the other end.

Together, Ana and Inès had somehow succeeded in introducing an ice-age into the subtropics. The man, who still hadn't introduced himself, remained blissfully ignorant at the sudden climate change. He walked over to the teak table, pointing at the wine red chairs.

"Seat, seat."

When Inès saw Harry, her whole demeanour changed. No trace of the previous icy stare could be found. Instead, the playful look was back. Ana, however, apparently saw no need to hide her feelings for the other woman; which made for a tense atmosphere and one of the strangest dinners Harry had ever had.

Ana didn't utter a single word. The man who had invited them was only marginally more talkative. He was silent most of the time, eating absentmindedly, but Harry was able to learn at least a few things. Their host and the owner of the _Sabuha_ was a Mister Abdul Nasser al-Khayat. Apparently he had just made a big deal somehow involving oil and now was celebrating his business. He simply wanted many people on his ship to celebrate with.

"Many friends," he said, smiling, before he resumed his soup. "Many friends on my ship, and we all have fun, yes?"

As though to compensate for that, Inès conversed freely – with the only person left, Harry. He was caught between all fronts, but tried to make the best of it.

"I shouldn't tell you that, but we ordered dinner from the best restaurant on the spot."

She laughed, a nice sound.

"Our cook was not pleased."

Harry grinned, and Ana darted an irate look at him, finally unable to remain silent any longer.

"I fail to see what is funny there."

Inès nodded amiably, completely ignoring the hostility.

"Yes, however you should have seen his face when I told him. He looked the most peculiar way. I fear, he took that as a personal affront to his culinary skills … of course, not everyone has a sense of humour."

Ana gritted her teeth. Mr. al-Khayat hummed contentedly over his soup. But Inès continued already, having turned back towards Harry.

"There was nothing to do, however. We wanted the typical cuisine, and no one makes that better than Joseph. His_ soupe de poisson_ is fantastic."

Harry nodded, taking another spoonful of the soup.

"It's wonderful."

Next to him, Ana threw her napkin on the table and looked at him disgustedly, rising.

"Since you are having such a _wonderful_ conversation, you won't miss me if I visit the bath. If you'll excuse me."

Harry paused and placed a hand on her arm.

"Ana …"

He caught a glimpse of something flickering across her face – regret, fear? – but she turned away.

"Save it, Harry."

"Through the door, and then at the end of the vestibule, on the starboard side. Vis-à-vis the staircase," supplied Inès helpfully, and Ana picked up her bag and marched away, drawing herself up high.

# # #

Dessert arrived, but Ana did not. Inès seemed to have noticed his frown, because when she'd finished her Tarte Tropézienne, she announced: "I'll look for her."

And before Harry could say anything, she had risen, taking her red hand-bag from the back of the chair behind her and walked through the doorway Ana had vanished behind earlier. He was left with the taciturn Mr. al-Khayat, and even he left shortly after, with a brief nod.

Harry slowly walked around the room, looking at the various paintings on the wall. There was a bark at high seas, affronting a storm that piled up white-capped waves. Next to it, in a stark contrast, was a very serene painting depicting the harbour of a small village. Tiny fishing boats were debouching in the soft golden glow of early dawn. Harry quite liked it.

"It's nice, isn't it? It's my favourite picture here."

He started at the voice that had spoken directly next to him and spun around. Inès had returned, walking as silently as a cat.

She stood there, admiring the clear aquamarine water in the bay. "I love the port and little fishing boats. It reminds me of the town I was born."

"Yes, it's nice," he replied distractedly. "Where is –"

The brunette smiled at him reassuringly.

"Your friend will be here in a few minutes. Apparently, the fish didn't agree with her. I shall have a word with the cook. There's no excuse for something like this to happen."

She frowned.

"I feel awful about it. I apologise, in mine as well as in Mr. al-Khayat's name."

Harry looked at her distressed form.

"It's alright. It's not as if you could've known."

"It's not alright," she insisted. "Perhaps there is a way I can make up for it?"

Music and voices drifted inside, undistinguishable; blending together in a constant yet low, faraway hum. She slung her bag over her shoulder and took one step forwards. The light from the star-like lamps embedded in the ceiling made her dark eyes sparkle as she looked up to him. Harry stared at her, transfixed, her face, framed by loose strands of hair, just inches away; close enough to make out the single lashes of her eyes and the tiny, solitary mark on her left cheek. He felt her hands on his shoulders and neck, brushing over his skin so very lightly, closely …

The soft touch shook him out of his stupor. He stepped backwards, breaking the contact.

"Yeah. A drink would be nice."

She smiled at him.

"Of course."

She walked over to the storage cabinet and took out two crystal glasses.

"Cognac? Or rather something English – whisky?"

"Whisky will be fine, thanks."

She poured three fingers of amber liquid into each glass and handed him his.

"Cheers."

They drank in silence. Harry felt torn between being angry with her, because she flat-out ignored his relationship with Ana, and being angry with himself – and realised irritated that he couldn't tell if it was because he'd come much too close to kissing her or because it hadn't been nearly close enough.

# # #

An hour later, Harry was lying in a deck lounge and sipping Champagne.

Inès had led Harry through the ship onto the open sun deck, where the party was in full swing. People danced, and on the port side a few lounges had been arrayed, next to small tables, complete with ice buckets and Champagne. She had introduced him to her friend, Aimée. Aimée was cute, seventeen, from Bordeaux and very attentive. She had brought three glasses over, filled them with Champagne, and even offered a place in her lounge.

Of course, the lounge wasn't really made for two, much less three, but she hadn't seemed to mind. The champagne was superb, and the next hour blurred together in a flurry of Inès' laughter, pounding music and moving bodies. They'd danced together a few times, until Inès had excused herself and left him in Aimée's care.

Now he was lounging lazily next to her, and starting to feel strange. Or no, he thought, he _was feeling_ something strange. It took him awhile to realise the difference. The feel was alien, yet intimately familiar. Like something he felt everyday – but –

He jerked up, almost pushing Aimée out. He apologised absentmindedly, that was it! What he felt was the presence of magic. And now, that he was actively looking for it, it wasn't possible to miss it; it stood out like a lighthouse in the dark, as it was the only source nearby. Harry felt it very acutely; it was one of the more handy talents he had developed during the war – not the most obscure of skills, but certainly not the most common, either.

The reason he hadn't recognised it right away was because he was so very much accustomed to it; in everyday live, it surrounded him, and after all the time, it had faded to the back of his consciousness. Here, however, it radiated from a single location. Harry jumped out of the lounge, ignoring Aimée's questions, and turned his head, looking around. Someone here was magical, and performing magic at this very moment. He moved past two men who talked in rapid French. Where were they?

He strode over to the starboard side, eyeing a group of people huddled together in a corner; but they weren't engaged in any kind of suspicious activity. The magic didn't come from them. It was still as strong as before, however. Judging by the long span of time that had already elapsed, Harry thought it had to be some kind of ward. Perhaps originating from within the ship? It required a certain concentration, one unlikely to be found out here amid the volume of the partying folk and the music they danced to. He forged back through the dancing crowd towards the door; as quickly as he could.

When he was passing the lounges again, three things happened in a quick succession.

The oppressive feel of an Apparition-ward washed over Harry. Water splashed loudly, as someone fell overboard. And a man in a black suit seized Ana's hand-bag, propped up against the leg of Aimée's lounge, and sprinted away.

People flocked to the rail, staring down. Others started to shout angrily as the running man pushed a woman aside, causing her to fall to the ground. After a short moment of bewilderment, Harry became annoyed and whipped out his wand, pointing it at the escaping man. _Just what does that guy think he's doing?_

_Accio bag!_

An almost invisible shield, with a faint purplish hue, flared to life around his back, and Harry's nonverbal spell had no effect at all. _Oh what the hell._ A wizard? One in a shield-_suit_? Was there even something like that?

The man vaulted over the rail, sliding down the sloping stern of the yacht to the aftdeck below. Harry wasted no time and started to run as well, pushing through the people, uncaring about their protests, vocalized in French and other languages he didn't understand anyway. He followed the route the man in black had taken, but when he slid down, the thief had already reached the wooden plank leading onto the quay. It vibrated under his rapid, heavy footfalls and that gave Harry an idea. In midair, he grinned and pointed the wand at it.

"Diruptio!"

A deafening bang reverberated over the ship. Glass shattered. A fountain of water shot ten feet into the air. Splinters of wood and stone and metal flew everywhere as the explosion ripped the gang-way to pieces.

And a part of the aftdeck.

And the nearest section of the quay.

Ehehe … _oops?_

Harry resisted the strangest urge to laugh.

People screamed, thrown to the ground as the shockwave struck them like a wall of bricks. Something connected with his head, hard, and he fought against the blackness creeping around the edges of his vision, but to no avail. The last thing he glimpsed was Aimée's form bent over the rail above him, staring at him wide-eyed.

# # #

When he sat back up, everything was strangely muted. The noises sounded like they were coming from somewhere very distant. He groped around, seeing the dark brown planks of the aftdeck, but the texture of the wood did not register in his palms. People lay strewn all about him, some moving feebly, others motionless. Mouths shaped words but Harry felt strangely detached … until in a sudden rush, everything came crashing back down on him.

A cacophony of noises, people screaming at the quay, groaning on the ship. The sound of horns getting closer and closer. His touch returned as well – and God_damn_, his arse hurt. He winced as he tried to turn around. And his side looked like a pincushion, pinioned with slivers of wood ranging from the smallest of blisters to twigs. For good measure, he winced again. It looked even more painful than it felt.

He gazed upon at the mess he'd created, staggering under the sudden influx of sensory input. His head pounded from a fierce headache, and the noise amplified it at least a hundred times. He pressed his hands to his temples and suppressed a moan.

"Good fucking game," he hissed angrily. He'd tried to stop one guy escaping, and for that wrecked a ship. The bottle of champagne was sending its regards.

"Note to self: _Don't_ use magic when drunk."

Incidentally, where _was_ the man in black? Harry rose to his knees, then to his feet, still wobbly, looking further around. The aft of the yacht was rent open, granting an intimate view into its interior, some cabins and the engine room.

But the thief was nowhere to be seen. The red bag, however, was drifting in the water, illumined by lamps on the yacht below the water surface that somehow still burned. It bobbed up and down in the midst of shards of concrete, beneath the destroyed quay bulkhead, that somehow looked like a hungry giant had built up quite an appetite and bitten a chunk out of it with no regard for manners.

Just as he began to summon it, he heard another voice.

"Accio bolso!"

His head snapped up and he watched disbelievingly as the bag zoomed out of the water, towards the lithe, dripping form of Inès on the quay. She had shed her Kaftan, and had obviously just emerged from the water. Her wet hair glistened in the light of many lamps in the harbour.

_Huh, now where could she have been hiding that wand, if she was only wearing_ – Harry mentally slapped himself. What did that matter?

The real questions were why was she a witch, why was she here; and why hadn't he noticed?

He pondered that, while he waited for Inès to bring back the bag. The last question was easy to answer. He hadn't noticed because he was … distracted. Yes, distraction. She'd taken care of that, oh yes. That little wench.

And that much for not underestimating her, he thought sardonically. Otherwise, this revelation just moved his internal shit-O-meter from mildly annoyed to quite angry. No one got to play him like that for free – not if he didn't get anything out of it. More and more little clues moved into a picture.

What were the odds of different groups of wizards and witches suddenly popping up at every corner, aboard a Muggle yacht? Something was going on here, behind the scenes of a harmless Muggle business transaction party, and he wanted to know what. Yeah, something was definitely fishy here, and that was not counting Ana's spoilt _Soupe de_ – _wait_. Harry's thoughts came to a screeching halt. Where _was_ Ana, actually?

Startled, he realised that he hadn't seen her since … a long time. His memory wasn't running at full capacity at the moment. What had happened? He used his fingers to keep track of the separate points. They had had dinner. Then Ana had excused herself. Then Inès had followed her. Then she had told him that Ana had had problems with the fish, and that – that she would return in a minute.

He cursed and kicked a piece of the debris into the water. Ana never came back. Harry rubbed his forehead and tried to piece the rest of the memory back together. Inès and Aimée. Whenever he had wanted to go look for her, either had diverted his attention.

That was it. The shit just went off the scale. He had had enough. Inès made no move to come on board; hence he would come to her. They would have a long talk, and then he would extract a few answers from her.

Harry wasn't particularly concerned for Ana. She had her wand with her and could fend for herself. She didn't need a babysitter; he couldn't stand women that did, and needed him to constantly cling to their side. Ana knew that and wouldn't wait for him. Most likely, she was already back at the bungalow. She would be alright by herself.

And he still wanted to get the bag back, after all. Ana had only bought it a week prior in Nice.

He didn't hesitate any longer. When Inès started to walk away on the quay, he was already running towards the shredded stern of the yacht and jumped, using a precisely timed repelling charm on the planks to boost his take-off and heighten the apex of his leap. Twenty feet further, he landed on the quay in a crouch, using his momentum to carry him forwards in a roll.

The red light whizzed over his head, barely missing its target. His snapped a stunner in return-fire, towards the man in a black suite, whom he'd seen from the corner of his eye. He'd appeared out of nowhere, even though Harry still felt the Apparition-wards surrounding him. His spell went wide of the aggressor, and his thoughts raced. If the man didn't apparate, he'd come with a portkey. That meant he was a French Ministry official or at least had connections to someone that was. The entire affair worsened by the second.

He swore as he saw Inès finally tear away after lingering a few moments to watch the short exchange. The man saw it as well, and set off in pursuit at once. Harry jumped to his feet and sprinted after the man. He had to be quick; he didn't know how far the wards extended. For all he knew, she could apparate away at any moment and his chance for a enlightening _talk_ would be gone.

People in all shapes and forms blurred together in one colourful mass as he streaked past, focused solely on the man in black, who in turn concentrated on Ana's bag clutched in Inès hand, who was running for life, if the panicked looks over her shoulder were any indication.

They were running down the quay, close to the edge, headed towards the end of the harbour. The man had fired spells, but as a stray curse hit a passant, he snarled angrily and ceased fire. Harry hadn't even tried; he had attracted enough attention already. There was no sense in further alerting Ministry authorities to his current whereabouts by casting more spells; and he was closing the distance swiftly enough without the involvement of magic.

Inès jumped over the hawsers mooring the yachts at the bollards and made a sudden turn to the right. She hurtled past some stationary motorbikes and plunged into the crowd; apparently having come to the conclusion that she would be safer there, if her pursuer hesitated to use his wand for fear of hitting Muggles.

She herself had obviously no problems with dealing a little collateral damage. She thrust her wand and blasted a little booth belonging to one of the many painters that tried to sell their wares out of her way. Splinters of wood filled the air, showering a small audience of tourists admiring the gallery. The painter screamed and cursed as his work was reduced to pieces before his very eyes, shaking his fist at the approaching woman until she banished him with a flick to the side. He was lifted high into the air and dashed to the ground some few yards away, not rising.

She tore through the remains of his displays, banishing the demolished mass, robbed of any artistic value, backwards into the path of the man Harry was chasing. He stumbled, and Harry took the chance to zip by him on the left.

Now it was him and Inès, although she hadn't looked back and didn't know that. The wards were somehow still surrounding them, making it more and more obvious that the whole situation had been organized and implemented in advance. They were a few hundred yards away from the yacht by now. It simply wasn't possible for one man to raise a ward that stretched this far, it had to be a coordinated effort of many people, which of course meant that there were more here.

_Great._

They weaved in and out of the crowd, dodging a few people that looked rich, famous, beautiful or all three; and many, many more pretenders that tried to convey any of those qualities, and failed miserably. Inès sent a young girl stumbling and made a desperate dash for one of the many bars. As Harry passed the girl, she was shouting on the ground, something that sounded like Russian.

He was less than ten feet behind Inès when she reached the open doors. Behind the glass front the bar was packed with people. It was one of those new, carefully styled bars where the form of the teaspoons allegedly fit the colour of the tables, with designer-furniture in glass and steel, choice pieces of modern art in the corners and coloured neon lights hidden in the wall and the ceiling. The old _bar tabacs_ had long since retreated further into the village.

Inès passed swiftly through the crowd, towards the back, where a troupe of live-musicians performed. Harry made to follow her, but because he watched her and not his path, he stumbled into a tall man. He was wearing a black suit and Harry was fairly certain that he hadn't been there moments before. _Of course not._ Harry was tiring of men in black suits popping up at every turn. The man regarded him with a cool, another-stupid-tourist look.

"Watch where you are walking."

His English was heavily accented. Harry frowned. How had he known he was English?

"I'm sorry, Sir."

Harry turned to walk past. The man expertly kept abreast of him, stepping sideways and impeding his path further into the bar. In the back, Inès reached a separation and vanished around a corner.

"Could I pass?" Harry said slowly.

The man didn't move a single muscle, just continued to look at him condescendingly.

_Arse._

Harry's hand involuntarily twitched towards his left arm, where his wand was hidden in its holster. For the tiniest instant, the eyes of his opponent narrowed, but that was enough. He knew that Harry was a wizard – and now he knew that Harry knew. Still, he made no movement, other than to block another attempt of Harry to pass. Around them, people pushed and shoved, in and out of the bar.

For a few seconds, it seemed like a stalemate. For whatever reason, the man wouldn't attack him. Perhaps he simply wanted to prevent him from following Inès, Harry thought furious. Sadly, he felt no desire to attack, either. Defending was one thing, but attacking someone with at least semi-official standing in the Ministry of a foreign country was not really something he wanted to do.

On the other hand, observing how his knee would complement Mr. Condescending-Look's stomach and simply shoving him aside sounded very tempting.

After a few more seconds, the tension had ceased to be a private affair, infecting the air around them. The milling crowd had begun to back away, leaving a clear space a few feet in any direction, watching them. The barkeeper eyed them warily and began to move over from his bar to Harry's right. Everyone else began to show interest, their pace slowing in their hope for a show. Wealthy or not, people always loved excitement.

"You were on board the _Sabuha_, yes?" the man drawled finally. "I think that we should move outside."

He put a hand on Harry's shoulder, and that was the last thing Harry needed to convince himself to go ahead with his earlier plan. The man doubled over, wheezing and coughing as Harry's knee drilled into him and he was pushed aside, into the bar counter.

"_Don't_ touch me," Harry informed him, stepping around him.

At the last moment, the hand snapped forwards. The man, still sputtering on the ground, caught Harry by his trousers.

"Not … so _fast_."

Before he could dislodge the grip, he was pulled down sharply; struggling and involuntarily pulling up the man. Harry crashed to the ground, hard. Obviously, the man had gotten annoyed. Well, welcome to the club, Harry thought angrily. _Been there for a while already._

He barely managed to roll away from the kick aimed at his side that would've hurt like hell, even without snapping a rip or two. Rising, he avoided another stroke, limiting himself to evasion temporarily. He didn't want to fight, he wanted to get out of the back door, through which Inès presumably had left. He – something hit him like a freight train.

And before he could really grasp what was happening, he was airborne, at least until a table thoughtfully brought his flight to an abrupt end. The edge dug painfully into his body as he collided with it below his ribs, robbing him of his breath as he crashed heavily onto the plate. His weight unbalanced the table, lifting the far end of the table-legs off the ground and sending him sprawling onto the floor.

Above him loomed the imposing figure of the man.

"You think this is funny?"

Harry desperately tried to suck air into his lungs and glanced at the hateful face above him.

"You and all the other English scum, thinking you can do whatever you please. France is not another English County! What did you want with it? Eh?"

The long-stemmed wine glasses which had been on the table prior to Harry had spilled their contents over the couple sitting there. The woman was screaming, the man, short and quite fat, cursing in a language he didn't recognise.

"I … don't … know … what you mean," Harry heaved out, still having problems getting enough oxygen. He was hauled back onto his feet roughly from behind by the man. His right arm put Harry into a headlock.

"We are leaving now," he hissed into Harry's ear.

Harry seized the arm clamped over his throat, ducked under the man and in turning right, twisted the arm backwards. Freed from the chokehold, he kept a firm grip on the twisted arm which forced the man to duck and move as Harry moved, to prevent dislocating his shoulder.

Harry used his advantage to push him through the onlooking crowd, banging the head of the man head against the opposing wall. The impact rattled a painting depicting three black circles (one big and two smaller ones) which obligingly fell from its place on wall. The blunt edge of the heavy metal frame knocked him out cold. With a soft gasp the man slumped to the ground with the painting around his neck, his head sticking through the torn paper-like canvas.

Harry rushed past him, past the fake-scandalised looking customers, but by now the fat man had risen. He was still swearing and his silk shirt looked very much ruined.

"Sorry," Harry offered in a by-the-way sort of way, pointing at the stained shirt.

The man started to colour, fast.

"Sorry! I give you, sorry! You –"

He stopped speaking, snorting loudly, and charged towards Harry in an impressive imitation of a bull. Harry stood there, cursing. It _had_ been some time since he'd been in a proper bar fight, but he had no time for it now, damnit! Already more than a minute had passed since Inès had vanished in the back; she was making headway, and fast. Well, the quick way, then.

Still snorting with rage, he was upon Harry, swinging his arms wildly.

"Yes! You show this ruffian, Karl-Dietrich!"

The shrill voice cut through the general racket. His female company was cheering for him. Harry repressed the urge to laugh at the ridiculous name and ducked below 'Karl-Dietrich''s haymaker. He seized the man's shoulders and drilled his knee into his abdomen, the momentum of the approaching man adding to the force of the punch.

Karl-Dietrich coughed and sputtered as Harry wheeled him around, tottering feet on their heels as he used himself as a pivoting point and primarily the man's own weight. He released him on the third revolution, flinging him into one of the glass cabinets that showed off the more pricey bottles of liqueur.

His mass shattered the glass in a shower of shards, destroying the shelves. The woman screamed. Hundreds of pounds' worth of the best alcohol available spilled onto the ground as the bottles shattered. Harry winced at the violent clinking. That hadn't been his intention. Damn shame about the drinks.

Harry looked around and saw the barkeeper pushing his way through the crowd, to the centre of destruction of splintered wood, shards of glass, spilled liquids and a ruined priceless painting. And he had secured the assistance of two gorillas that would give Crabbe and Goyle a run for their money – they were not only wide, but also huge.

Harry felt like he had begun to overstay his visit. It was definitely time to leave, but of course, it wasn't that easy. He groaned in exasperation as he realised that once again, he'd neglected to plan ahead. He really wasn't worth much when even just half-drunk. Why had he thrown fatty ahead of him instead behind him? Now he was blocking his path – _again_, armed with the last bottle of wine still remaining intact, and judging by his red face, still very much wanting to continue the fight.

Directly behind Harry, the duo and the barkeeper advanced.

And the shrill urging from the fat man's ladylove was _nerve-shattering._

Right. Harry lifted a nearby chair off the ground and started to run forwards. He had had enough. The Provençal Rosé came at his head from the side, but he intercepted it with the chair. The bottle merely slid sideways along the curve of the backrest's rungs. It bounced off and out of its wielder's grip, hurtling end over end – the bottle in one direction and its cork in the opposite. Its contents poured over a poodle, and the mouse-sized animal almost drowned.

Discarding the chair, Harry raised his foot and _stomped_, committing all his weight on a downward rush to the man's foot. The man gave a pained cry and lifted the foot, holding it with his hands; which left him hopping on one leg.

Harry pushed.

He flailed, losing his balance, and his back thudded heavily onto the ground, clearing the path. Harry stepped over his expansive girth and, ignoring shouts from behind his back, sprinted towards the rear of the bar. Past guests, past the man seated at the piano, whose fingers had continued to play stoically, avoiding another person's lunge, rounding the corner, and _finally_, there was the door.

# # #

Harry leant back against the simple wooden door, taking a deep breath. He'd blocked it with the wedge lying next to it, probably used to keep the door open. Now, it would keep the door shut.

But it also kept the light inside. In the dark, the red-tiled houses shining in bright pastel shades during the day where simply grey. Harry stared into the night. The back alley stretched to his left and right. Lamps were the exception, but he saw enough to know that there wasn't anything to be seen. Only a few minutes had passed since Inès had left the bar, but that was time enough; the alley was deserted. A surprisingly cool breeze picked up, making him shiver. An empty cardboard crate scraped over the cobblestones somewhere down lane.

Which way would she have run? Left? Or right?

There was no one to ask. The wooden shutters on the few windows facing the little alleyway were all closed. Almost no sound drifted over from the harbour. Harry tried to recall the map of the village. It wasn't as if this was a huge city. In fact, it was a very tiny village, so he couldn't help _but_ find her, eventually. She couldn't have escaped, he was still within the boundaries of the wards, and he began to suspect that they covered the entire village.

Having come to a decision, he turned right. He jogged down the alley at a leisurely pace, then turned left at the next intersection, under a dark brick archway, roaming deeper and deeper into the narrow and winding alleyways of the Old Town.

The little shops he passed were closed, the displays all moved inside. Harry met no one on his run through the unlit streets, the life hidden away by walls, in cartilages; taking place inside the town houses. The only living things left on the many balconies were the exotic flowers drooping from the black, iron-wrought balustrades, exuding their sweet scents into the night.

Suddenly he emerged into the open, directly in front of the church whose name he'd forgotten. The single light on one corner, above the portal, illumined the piazza with a dim yellow glow. The wind whispered in the leaves of the ivy clinging to the old wall and tugged on the lamp. It rocked back and forth in a continuous motion and sent the shadows scurrying over the ground, animating the wall.

Above the rustle, his ears discerned a different sound somewhere behind him.

Whirling around, he caught a fleeting sight of a shadow darting behind a corner, at the other end of the square. It expanded on the wall, strangely distorted by the solitary source of light. Harry lingered no longer and broke out into a full-out sprint.

Moments later, he entered the same street, delving once again into the maze of ochre and rose buildings, overgrown by wisteria and bougainvillea. In front of him, he saw two dark shapes running. He felt his heart beating fast from the exertion, the footsteps echoing harshly in his ears, unnaturally amplified by the walls, which moved together more and more, leaving a path no wider than three of four feet.

From ahead of him, he heard shouts. Light flickered, spell-light. He sped up, somehow fearing he was running out of time. Fifty yard left, perhaps, the uneven, narrow lane had taken a small turn. Inès and her pursuer were out of sight. More shouts carried through from around the wall, a feminine voice crying out in anger.

"No!"

The walls in front of Harry flashed bright green, a harsh, glaring light; blinding in its suddenness.

_No!_

He felt the subconscious pressure of the Apparition-ward lift. With a final burst of speed, he rounded the corner and skidded to a halt.

No one was here anymore. The bag was missing. Only Inès was lying prone on the ground; still, so very still.

He swallowed as he forced himself to walk closer, all thoughts about questioning her forgotten. The playful grin on her face was absent. In its place was a mask of fear. Harry remembered her warm hand in his as they'd walked aboard the yacht, less then two hours and an eternity ago; brimming with high spirits, with her dark eyes sparkling mirthfully. Now they were dull and lifeless, staring blindly in the night.

Inès was dead.

* * *

_**Reviews of any kind are welcome, I responded where I could. To everyone else, thanks as well. Now go speculate :D**_

There are clues in there ...


	3. Episode Two: The Mines of Pays de Caux

**Disclaimer:** Since there is no Greater German Reich under Grindelwald's leadership in the books, HP's not mine.

**A/N: **Again, I'd be nowhere without Andromalius and especially Tinn Tam at DLP. She makes French French and helped with Paris and the Avenue des Arcades. Go read their stories, if you haven't already :)

Thanks for all your reviews - I've got fifty now, yay :) I responded where I could; but two of the nicest were anonymous, so I'll answer them here.

_**Prophet**_, thanks ever so much. I've never been in St Tropez, so I had to make do with reports of others who were, with photos and with Google Maps (awesome tool if you can't afford to simply travel there and look at things yourself). But yeah, I can't be certain, obviously - so it's great to hear that the descriptions fit. As for village vs. town ... oh well. I'll simply say that I was talking about the Old Town, then ;) The shorts thing, well, it might've been a tad stereotypic (as was the conversation about nice ... cars), but I thought it would be funny :) The Russian is not really important, though, since I simply picked a random nationality. And as for the update ... *sigh* Well, it's there now? *looks hopefully*

_**harrypotterspirit**_, I *loved* reading your comments. In fact, it was this that made me finally simply push away all the other RL things that had kept me from finishing the last corrections and finally post this chapter. I think you're the first one to pick up on ... well, I won't say it here as not to spoil it for the rest. Honestly, I was starting to think my clues were hidden *too* well. Rest assured, though, that you asked some very interesting questions. The first one about Ana's location will be answered right now; and as for the last part about Ana ... well, enjoy the small revelations about that in this chapter in the knowledge that you were right. I hope you find that as satisfying as I do when reading :)

As for the last part about Harry: True, he has changed, and it was the war that did it. In that regard, look out for the line about Daphne. It shows exactly that. And now I'm curious if after the first scene, you start to see what was *really* happening on the ship, with Ana, Inès and ... :D

Enjoy, all.

* * *

**T**HE **F**RENCH **A**FFAIR

**Episode Two:** The Mines of Pays de Caux

Harry couldn't tear his gaze away from her young, pretty face, contorted in fear at death's door. His wand cast a wan light over her body, the grey paving stones and the walls. It made her appearance all the more lifeless. Even the orange wall behind her head seemed to have lost all its colour. He swallowed again, his throat suddenly constricted. Flashes of old memories, jumbled and confused, played out in front of his eyes.

Too familiar was the sight. Too similar the look on the face. _Dumbledore on the ground – the tower – Avada Ked- … his own hand, green light … Draco, so dead … Charlie – Bellatrix's horrible laughter, before he blasted her to smithereens and – Footsteps echoing loudly the dark … running, always running …_

Harry wrenched himself away from the dark memories the sight of Inès body evoked, memories drowned in too much Firewhisky, fragments of a lost youth …

_**Caw!**_

Harry jumped violently at the shrill scream cutting through the silence from above. The wand in his hand jerked and the shadows danced over the walls and the ground.

He let out nervous laughter. _A fucking seagull. You'd think they'd be asleep._ He clutched his wand more tightly. The tension was getting to him.

"But that's what you wanted, wasn't it?" he told himself.

His own hollow laughter rebounded eerily off the walls somewhere in the inky darkness, mocking him.

"More _excitement_. You complained about a lack of action. Now it turns out you can't handle it. War fucked you up pretty well, huh Potter?"

_Yeah. Like it did anyone else. Don't we have all our demons?_ A lost generation, running, always running, _footsteps on the ground, echoing, sharply resounding in the dark, always dark … so real, just a few meters behind him in the corridor of shrinking walls, always, yet never fathomable, like the monster that hid under his bed at night, consisting of amassed fear and shadows …_

So real …

_Click-click-click…_

The hairs on Harry's neck prickled.

_Click-clack-click…_

He started up. It _was_ real. Heels on the stone. It echoed distortedly from the walls, making it impossible to tell where it came from. _It came from all around._ He repressed the urge to call out, cursing himself for the sudden stab of fear. _One dead body, and my nerves go haywire._

Harry squashed any feelings that had no place here, and let the Auror training take over. He pressed himself into a corner where two walls conjoined, the most defensible position accessible to him. A bit of fog had come down, drifting over from the bay, where the cooler night air mingled with the warm water of the Mediterranean Sea. It drifted lazily into the backalley, carrying a salty smell. He crouched down. His hand touched a tumbling shred of red-striped paper on the ground.

_Click-click-click…_

The steps sounded nearer. _Nox._ The light flickered and died. He heard his breath going steadily, then stopping; holding it. The silence was now complete but for his own blood rushing in ears. Tensed down to the last muscle, he bent forward, ready to strike. The steps rounded the corner … _Expelliar-_

"Harry? Harry!"

He exhaled shakily and lowered his wand.

The fog parted and revealed the tall form of Ana. She hugged herself, shivering in the cold fog, with only her thin dress on.

Harry relit his wand.

"Ana. Here."

At that moment, every bit of tension left him. It simply evaporated. Everything caught with him, no longer repressed by the adrenaline. Pain slammed into him with the force of a rampant dragon. He felt his aching rips from the fight, the splinters still sticking in his side from when he'd blown up the ship; crusted wounds ripped open again, trickling warm, sticky blood down his side. His muscles burned from the sprints and the headache was back full force.

Harry's legs cramped, and with a suppressed scream, he fell forward to the ground, his legs no longer able to support his weight. He was barely able to cushion the fall with hands, but at least the cold stone gave some relive as he knelt on the pavement and pressed his forehead against it.

Ana had rushed to his side and was now helping him up again. He stood shakily, leaning on her heavily.

"Alright, Harry?"

He shook his head no.

"One moment."

With trembling hands, he pointed his wand at himself and muttered: "_Vigoria_."

Harry sighed in relief as the energising spell banished the pain and fatigue from his body once again. It was a standard spell in the Auror Manual, to be used in any situation exactly like this. He'd have another half hour, perhaps, before he'd pay heavily for pushing his body this far – but by then, he was hopefully back at the bungalow and in his bed.

He cautiously moved away from Ana's support, but there weren't any problems, he felt fit enough to run another mile. How misguiding feelings could be.

He turned and kissed her cheek.

"Thanks."

She frowned.

"What happened?"

"Before or after you left?"

"Harry …"

He took a step away from her and looked her squarely in the eyes.

"Because I'm not sure of either."

His gaze fell again at Inès's body behind her. Ana was silent, then: "The ship was attacked. I looked for you everywhere. Why did you leave?"

"Inès is dead," Harry said dully.

"What? Harry –"

"She didn't deserve to die. Damn, she wasn't supposed to! She should be somewhere, anywhere, just not –"

He stopped speaking and punched the wall angrily. Saying it out loud meant admitting it was real. He had spent an evening with her, gotten to know her, liked her – much too much, even, and now she was simply dead. Dead. Just like that. Her mischievous eyes closed, her laughter gone.

He suppressed the urge to start thinking of what might've happened; if he only had left the bar quicker … these thoughts led nowhere, but it was hard. No, there was just one thing left. He'd get to the bottom of this. For himself as much as for Inès. Her murderer would not escape unpunished.

Ana's warm hand on his arm ripped him from his thoughts.

"How did it happen?"

Harry shrugged.

"The Killing Curse. I couldn't see more. When I arrived, whoever did it was already gone. He stole your bag, that was the reason I followed him from the ship in the first place."

Ana looked at him blankly.

"Who he? And what's with my bag? I've got it here." She lifted her left arm, showing her dangling handbag. "What are you talking about?"

"But …"

Harry trailed off, shaking his head, confused. He looked back and forth between Inès on the ground and Ana, stepping closer, touching the bag as if to make sure it was really there. Glass clinked inside, it felt fairly full.

"Then whose bag did I follow?"

He could have sworn that the bag the man had grabbed had looked like Ana's. Had there been two bags?

Ana brushed a blonde strand of hair back, and looked around quickly.

"We have to leave, Harry."

When he didn't move, she took his hand.

"Come on, Harry. Or do you want to spend the night at the French Ministry explaining why you were found bent over the dead body of her?"

Harry took a small step, then paused again.

"We can't leave her here like this!"

"And what do you propose we do with the body, Harry? Apparate with it, so that they'll be able to track us? Or carry it through the town? Because that are the options."

He stared at Ana, then at Inès, utterly torn. Unwillingly, his thoughts flashed back. The one moment in the Salon aboard the _Sabuha_ … her face, so close, just inches away, burnt forever in his memory …

Ana's hand tugged at his.

"Please, Harry. I don't want you to end up in a cell. The night has taken a bad enough course already as it is. I'm sure the Ministry will take care of her; with all honours – probably even more than she deserves, too."

He turned back to Ana, staring into her pleading eyes.

Moments passed.

Slowly he started to walk, his back turned to Inès, and she remained behind, her prone form swallowed by the fog that covered the cobblestone with a film of glistening wetness, and the darkness that claimed the alleyway, as soon as the light of Harry's wand left.

# # #

When Harry woke the next morning, there was no dark-blonde shock of tousled hair next to him. The bed was empty. It wasn't warm, either, so Ana had left already a while ago. Harry pushed the covers back, rising; wondering where she was.

His bare feet padded over the thick woollen rug in front of the bed. He took the dressing gown from the hook next to the wardrobe, wincing as the movement stretched the freshly healed patches of skin uncomfortably, and went to look for Ana.

He found her at the sitting room window front, staring outside. Thick dark clouds had gathered over night, dipping the world in grey; and yesterday's warmth was completely gone. Instead a fine, spray-like rain hid the far end of the bay from sight. The wind pushed the drizzle in gusts over sea and mountains and against the glass, where it gathered until the drops had become large enough to follow the pull of gravity, running down the window in irregular trails.

He watched her for a moment standing there, saw her gaze following the raindrops on the pane, until they reached the outer windowsill, where they formed a small puddle.

"Ana?" he said softly.

She was holding a half-filled glass of Bordeaux in her hand, he noticed. She took a sip, but made no indication that she had heard him. Harry crossed the parlour, joining her at the panorama windows.

He called her name again, but she continued staring out into the dreary day. He had given her nothing but a short summary of the events the night before, and she had said even less. He wanted to get a few answers.

"We have to talk about what happened on the yacht."

She turned her back to him and walked further down the window front, to the door leading onto the patio, the glass in her hand.

"I don't see what there is to talk about."

The rain lashed against the window.

Frustrated, Harry pushed his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown.

"Perhaps about you and Inès, would that be a start? Did you know her?"

She didn't answer.

He walked over to her in long strides, grabbing her shoulders. Ana stiffened under his touch.

"Leave it be, Harry."

She sounded so resigned. He tried to get her to look at him, but she shook off his hands. Angrily, he stared at the pale reflection of her face in the window.

"What? You can't seriously mean that, Ana. Completely ignoring the other strange ongoings; what happened, there, between you, Inès and me –"

"_Nothing_ happened. We came, had dinner and left."

Her voice now held the hint of a warning. Harry had no problems ignoring it. He was quickly loosing his patience.

"What's up with you, Ana? Don't you think that just maybe I'm wondering where we are standing after all that, considering that _you_ were the one wanting to talk later, on the ship? Remember? And now, you're acting as if everything is just peachy? Don't you have anything to say?"

She spun around. Her face was flushed in anger, but underlying was another emotion. Guilt? The glass slammed onto the windowsill.

"What? _What_, Harry? What do you want me to say? Should I ask if you kissed her? Slept with her? Heaven knows you had enough time and she couldn't have been more obvious if she tried. Is that what you want to hear?"

He stared at her.

"Well, there you have it. Did you?"

"No, I did _not_. I –"

"Well, in that case I fail to see the problem."

"Inès is _dead_, Ana!" Harry shouted. "You behaved completely out of character the entire time, were gone for ages, without giving me any explanation at all, while something was happening on board the yacht I have no clue about – something that was interesting enough for the French Ministry to send a batch of semi-officials, something that got me in a fight and Inès killed! And _you_ were the reason we went aboard the damn ship in the first place! That's the problem right there! I deserve an explanation after all that, don't you think?"

Harry took a deep breath, realising that he had seized her shoulders again and almost been shaking her. More calmly, he asked: "Ana, what is _happening_?"

Only then, he noticed that her shoulders were trembling. She was crying.

"Oh, damn it all ..."

He tried to show her that he wasn't angry, but she buried her face in her hands, refusing to look at him. He sighed and pulled her close, into his arms, before he fished his wand out of the pocket with his left hand, pointing it backwards and summoning a large armchair with a short flick. He sat down, pulling her with him. She curled up against him, still sobbing quietly into his side.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I'm sorry you got hurt and –"

He covered her hand with his own.

"It's alright, Ana."

Of course, it wasn't.

"No, it's not! What I did – I – oh Harry, I'm so sorry."

"You'll sort it out. You always do, hm?"

For a while he stroked her back quietly, until her tears subsided, and they sat in the armchair in silence. The only sound in the room was soughing of the rain outside, and the clock on the white mantelpiece, ticking the seconds and minutes away as the time passed.

"So what _did_ you do?" he asked eventually. He felt a bit guilty for trying to use her state to his advantage, but he still wanted to know.

But Ana had already recovered.

Muffled in his side, she said: "I'm doing nothing I can't handle. Trust me on that, Harry?"

He stroked her hair and pressed a little kiss on top of it, deciding to concede. At least for the moment.

"Alright."

He was unconvinced, considering that she'd just broken down crying, but it was her life.

"As long as it doesn't involve me?"

She shook her head emphatically against his chest.

"Not as long as you don't get involved by yourself."

He remained silent at that. Her breathing deepened and he almost thought she fallen asleep, when she asked in a small voice: "So we're alright, Harry?"

It was half question, half statement, and a part of him wondered about her tentative behaviour, so unlike her usual self, and if they truly _were_ alright, but he answered affirmative.

"Yeah."

She sighed and he caressed her back, and eventually, she fell asleep at his side. He left her where she was, remaining in the armchair and staring now out into the rain himself.

The air between them seemed cleared, but his questions remained unanswered.

He now knew that there was indeed something happening, or had happened; Ana had all but confirmed that, but still not what. If he really wanted to catch Inès's murderer he needed to know more. Asking Ana wouldn't really achieve anything; if she didn't want to tell him what she knew, nothing short of violence would make her.

Outside, more water poured down. Now, even this side of the bay was gone in a veil of rain.

Harry tried to go over the evening once again. Ana hadn't wanted to go onto the ship. Something Inès had said had convinced her otherwise. Had she known Inès? No, that wasn't likely. Inès had obviously been on the ship for quite some time, so where would they have met? And neither had shown any sign of recognition. But Ana had to have at least expected _someone_ to show up.

Which meant that she had used their one-month-anniversary at least partly as a pretence.

He pondered getting angry at her once again, but in the end, it served no purpose. She obviously was feeling misery at its most acute already. Laying into her would achieve nothing, although it left a slightly bitter taste. He pushed Ana's doings aside, concentrating on reconstructing the further course of the night.

Mr. al-Khayat, the owner of the yacht, had behaved oddly. Magic? It seemed likely. Perhaps a man from the Ministry had jinxed him, to keep him from noticing certain things. Had one of them also killed Inès? But why should they? Inès was French as well.

A small thought-fragment niggled on the back of his mind, but he couldn't remember what it was about. It didn't make sense.

So what had Ana done all the time while he had been together with Inès? Had she met someone, perhaps a third party, someone aside from the Ministry people? That was a possibility. Inès had looked for her and stumbled over something she shouldn't have seen. And once she realised she was trapped when the wards went up, she fled and was killed later. Shut up, quite effectively.

Harry sighed quietly.

Hundreds of questions, and pitifully few answers. The man in the bar had obviously assumed he was in on whatever was going on at that time. He wished he was. What had happened really on the ship? And who had killed Inès, and why?

# # #

After a few hours, he guessed it was going towards noon, she stirred.

"Hey there," Harry said.

She looked up at him. Her face was puffy, but at least she managed a watery smile.

"Thanks for being there, Harry."

She kissed him softly, before standing up.

"Get dressed. I'll make something to eat."

He was still in his dressing gown. Harry returned into the bedroom, where he changed; afterwards walking over to the dining room on the other side of the house. Despite being only moderately big, it was still a stately room, with dark, wood-panelled walls, and a huge chandelier above the table. The lights were already burning, as the bleary daylight had trouble brightening the dark room.

On the oak table with a wine red tablecloth, two sets of plates and silverware were laid out already, but the high-backed chairs were empty. He heard Ana working in the kitchen. When he was just about to leave the room again to help her, a cough stopped him.

Harry turned back towards the sideboard, above which a portrait of a stern-looking wizard hung.

"Pollux. Something up?"

He was Walburga's father, and, opposed to her, quite civil; if you could ignore his constant glare, that was. From within the heavy golden frame, his eyes looked sharply out into the room, watching over the happenings constantly.

The glare descended on him.

"I couldn't help but listen to your happy little conversations, first last night and now this one," he declared.

"Of course you couldn't," Harry agreed.

"You would have done well to have acquired more information, Mr. Potter," he said stiffly. "She should have told you what is going on. You should have pressed her. You realise that she effectively used you as a cover for whatever it was she did, yes?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it that harshly –"

"– mollycoddling nonsense –"

"– but she said that it wouldn't involve me. I believe her."

Pollux continued to glare at him.

"Because you don't have every intention to involve yourself with this matter, all on your own. I see."

He snorted.

"You young fools are all the same. Take my advice and stay as far out of it as you possibly can."

He paused and scrutinised Harry.

"But of course, you won't. Why do I even bother?"

Then he sighed theatrically.

"Don't let love blind you, Mr. Potter. You're already halfway there."

Harry frowned.

"Love … I don't think I really _love_ Ana. She knows that, too. I quite like her, I'm fond of her – I fell in love with her somewhat, perhaps. But that's it."

Pollux shook his head.

"I wasn't talking about _her_. I meant –"

"Here we go, Harry," Ana called, entering the dining room. A few plates were trailing behind her; bread, ham, cheese, some cold fish and salad. Ana liked salad.

"Not exactly French, but I didn't feel like actually cooking something."

Usually, whenever Ana made something to eat, it was influenced by her time here; which meant an extensive warm meal for lunch. Harry still tended to cook rather English.

With a swish of her wand, the plates and bowls arranged themselves at the table. Harry and Ana took seats, opposite each other, and started to dine. Harry watched her while she ate. She was a shade paler than usual, but otherwise, no reminder of her previous breakdown was visible. The traces of tears were all gone; he guessed she was already annoyed at herself for losing composure so completely.

Between two bites of her baguette with tuna, she said: "I'll have to go to London for a day or so."

Harry paused, the fork halfway to his mouth.

"When?"

"The earliest Portkey I can get."

Harry put the fork back down.

"Wow. That's a bit sudden. Your uncle?"

"Mmh. You don't have to come with me, though. I should be back the same day."

Harry shrugged.

"I can at least see you off, can't I?"

"If you want to."

He resumed eating, and then asked: "So, to the _Avenue des Arcades_ or to the Ministry?"

"_No!_" she exclaimed. "I mean, do you want the hassle with twenty different types of papers at the Portkey Office? It's gotten even worse recently – now the Department of National Integrity sticks their noses into it as well, citing 'security reasons' to check every international travel request. I'd have to run all over the ministry. No, I'll drop by _Portoloins Internationaux_, for a hopefully short and not hectic visit, since they know me already."

There were two ways to get your hands on a Portkey in France – you could walk to the Ministry yourself, fill out all the required forms which took ages and pay a relatively moderate amount of money. The forms would be checked, and once there were no objections, you'd get assigned a Portkey. Usually, that took days, but Ana had connections, so she could probably speed the process up substantially.

Or you could visit one of the licensed travel agencies, pay a significantly higher sum, but get your Portkey at once – if there were any slots still open, that was. Usually, they left two times a day, from separate Portkey Terminals all over the country. They did the paperwork for you, and submitted it later to the Ministry.

Harry wiped his hands on the napkin, having finished eating.

"Alright. _Avenue des Arcades_ it is. Been some time since I was there anyway."

Ana looked uneasy.

"Perhaps it would be best if you stayed here. You _did_ beat up that Ministry guy, after all. To say nothing of the yacht."

Harry shrugged.

"Doubt they'll do anything. I _am_ Harry Potter, after all."

"Things change, Harry. The climate between France and Britain hasn't been this frosty since before Grindelwald's Great War. They might decide that you would serve quite well as some sort of bargaining chip."

He shrugged again.

"I'll risk it. I'm not going to be cooped up here all the time, Ana. You do your thing, I'm going to do mine. Also, you were there as well. They could detain you just a well."

She frowned, but said nothing.

Harry grinned at her.

"Besides, we can always fight them together if they start getting frisky. If there's gonna be a diplomatic crisis, it'll damn well be me who causes it."

Now Ana grinned as well, shaking her head.

"And the sad thing is, I actually believe you."

She rose, sending the dishes, plates and bowls hovering to the kitchen with her wand.

"Well, come on then."

# # #

As always, the Avenue des Champs Élysées was a sight to behold.

Harry had stepped from behind one of the trees in the Gardens of the Champs Élysées, where they'd arrived, onto the pavement. Even at the end of September, there were still hordes of tourists milling around, chattering in twenty different languages all at once and taking pictures of everything that moved and everything that didn't.

Even the booths selling crêpes were still opened, but then again, perhaps they never closed in the first place.

Still, the many tourists dispersed on the pavement, which was as wide as a normal street. The street itself was a dozen times as wide as any normal street. Harry counted about eight lanes, on which the traffic thronged on its way, an endless line of cars and busses and lorries.

But all that wasn't what made the street – the avenue – this spectacular.

Harry was leaning sideways past the endless row of plane trees, looking to the west, straight ahead, since the avenue led straight ahead – straight as a die, making it possible to see a mile off and more. It sloped slightly uphill, and in the distance, almost but not quite lost in the grey of day, the Arc de Triomphe shimmered white.

He took it in for a few more moments, before he walked back to Ana, crossing the pavement again. She was looking slightly impatiently, but a small smile stole itself over face when he extended his hand towards her. Fingers closed securely around another, warmly; driving away the cold from the unpleasant wester blowing in their faces.

Together, they walked through the Gardens, over the patches of grass covered with the first golden leaves of autumn, past the sprinkling fountains and empty benches, past the huge, ornate wrought-iron gate flashing through the bushes on their right.

The air was crisp; filled only with the hoarse cawing of a colony of startled crows, rising up in a flock as Harry and Ana drew nearer to the tree, becoming small black dots in the sky, settling down somewhere else.

The sky over Paris was the same overcast grey as back at the Côte d'Azur; uniformly grey, perhaps promising rain, yet remaining dry. Windswept hair and red cheeks, twosome; walking on the wide pavement, between lines of chestnut trees that were aflame in red and orange, brightening up the dreary day … even if the sun never peeked from behind the grey in grey above, it was _la plus belle avenue du monde_, the most beautiful avenue in the world.

Harry and Ana strolled hand in hand past a now mostly deserted children's playground. Ahead was a roundabout, where three streets crossed; creating six symmetrical traffic isles, each with a fountain and wide flower displays, providing additional strokes of colour.

Here began the second half of the Champs. Buildings flanked the street at a stretch, unlike the first, leafy part; the façades carefully matched in white fronts of stone, leading up like a frame to the Arc de Triomphe on its end. The houses never exceeded six stories, which coupled with the wide street, exuded an air of spaciousness.

More people were out and about, shopping in one of the elegant boutiques, stopping to look into the shop windows or simply watching others shop from one of the many cafés.

One of these cafés was the _Café du Demi-Portail_, an inviting, bright place. Through the wide arched windows Harry saw people sitting at small round tables, drinking coffee and reading papers, but it seemed like he was the only one who could, apart from Ana. The other shoppers and tourists looked at the small boutique that sold perfumes to the right and at the shop with luxury clothes to the left, but never at the little café in-between.

The _Café du Demi-Portail_ was an entrance to the wizarding side of Paris. In close vicinity to its Muggle counterpart, it led to the French Ministry of Magic. It was frequented by the workers at the Ministry and always crowded, at least that had been the case whenever Harry had been there. It was never noisy, though; the atmosphere was a quiet, subdued one. People sat on the dark wooden chairs, bent forward and talking in murmurs; taking care not to disturb the other guests.

Of course, the coffee was quite overpriced, but Harry preferred tea anyway.

Ana took a single look through the warmly shining windows, pressed her lips together and walked past it.

Harry shrugged and again fell into step with her. It was more crowded here; but with short _pardon_s to the people around them she picked up her pace, not even pausing to look at the recently stocked winter collections in the displays of the fashion shops, which left Harry with no time for more than a fleeting look through the window frontages of the car showrooms.

# # #

Ten minutes later, they stood at the Place de l'Étoile, with the monumental arc in the centre. The name, star square, referred to the twelve main streets that ran into it and provided a traffic chaos of epic proportions with wildly honking cars and swearing drivers. Perhaps it was lucky, then, that the thirteenth street was magical in nature and only existed under certain circumstances.

Harry and Ana walked carefully on the typical dark grey granite-cobbles of the street, directly next to the kerbstone; counter-clockwise along the large roundabout. After only a few steps, something seemed to nudge the buildings apart, and another street appeared between the Avenue des Champs Élysées and the Avenue de Friedland – the Avenue des Arcades, the main shopping street of the wizarding part of Paris.

The entrance was a fairly recent addition, at least when compared to the café that had been there for half a millennium, in midst of soggy swamps, long before the Muggle part of Paris had extended this far. It was only a hundred and fifty years ago, when Muggle-Paris had started to grow in this direction, that the entrance had been added; or at least that was what the small brass badge said on the wall further down.

It was hidden from sight by the white mist that filled the street. Harry and Ana walked straight into it, and abruptly, the noise of the traffic and the bustling Muggles was cut off, swallowed by the fine mist. A few more steps, and the avenue emerged from within the fog. Turning his head, Harry could see that the many cars had vanished, just the square and the arc remained behind, their appearance as empty and pristine as the day they'd been build. The mist they'd just walked through was gone as well, but everything shimmered and wavered slightly, bleared; with a bluish tint, like being seen through the haze of a particularly hot summer day.

The Avenue des Arcades in front of him was in no way inferior to the streets they'd just left. Wide-stretched, lined by the gracefully curved arcades under the flat two-story buildings that housed the shops and gave the avenue its name, it led from this end straight up to the circular Place du Ministère, with the slim form of the Tower of Merlin rising up into the sky in its centre.

The deep black pavement provided a sharp contrast to the shining white edifices, diligently kept clean and unblemished, even if the day's dark weather dampened the effect. In the sun, it usually was dazzling, prompting the visitors to stare in awe.

Harry usually only got headaches.

The tourists that were here however still took photos, pointed and stared. A family with stressed-looking parents and two whinging children stood in front of the ice-cream parlour. To his left was a shop selling cauldrons, Ministry-regulated, with standardised size and wall thickness. The owner was engrossed in conversation with a second, Eastern-European wizard in business dress robes.

Ana and Harry had to walk around an entire school class that was standing in front of the _Maison Noue_, the most ancient building in this place. It belonged to old Madam Moreau, and had been built by her ancestors over thousand years ago, in midst of the sump, to have quick access to the magical plants that grew there. It had been the first real apothecary in France; and, constructed from sturdy dark oak planks on a flat rise surrounded by treacherous ground, had to have looked like the stereotypical witch's cottage.

Well, the stereotypes had to come from somewhere, too.

Even if the shop was no longer there and the timber-framed walls had made place for the white stone to fit the rest of the street, the inside had largely stayed the same. Today, it held a museum detailing its history (the various murders of a few owners in the early days were interesting) and explaining the variety of magical plants and their properties (that part was not).

The teacher pointed at the crest above the entrance and the class moved inside, out of the way of the other shoppers. Harry hadn't recognised the school uniforms; it had to be one of the smaller schools in Europe. The noise of the shouting and laughing children receded, but the jumble of different languages spoken all at once around him remained.

And in close intervals, there were wizards and witches in official looking light blue uniforms, French Aurors. They watched over the street, looking with grim expression at the people that passed them with hasty looks.

Harry looked around and frowned. It hadn't been like that the last time he'd been here, a year ago. People seemed … edgy. Anxious. There was a certain nervous energy in the air, that hadn't been before – as if people were waiting for someone or something to happen, or perhaps feared it. Small groups of French wizards and witches, standing huddled together, looking around quickly, restless. What had happened?

He darted a sidelong glance at Ana on his right. She behaved the same way. She looked tense and alert and avoided the looks from the Aurors, yet constantly checked her surroundings. More unusual behaviour. That had been partly the reason why he'd wanted to accompany her; he was curious to see what she was up to. Her sudden call to back to England fitted right in there with the rest of the strange ongoings.

Ana had assumed a brisk pace, walking purposefully along the avenue. Past shops with clothing and wands, brooms and pets they reached the square with the Tower. It was the original, the one in which Merlin had spent quite some time, and it was the most famous building in France.

Above the milling wizards and witches, Harry spotted the ornate sign of _Portoloins Internationaux_. This particular business seemed to attract especially many people. Rushed-looking wizards with baggage streamed towards it across the square, glaring at the relaxed tourists standing in their way.

Ana steered directly to the wide, two-story entrance portal. Behind it was an impressive hall, with grey marble flooring and gold inlaid posts carrying the ceiling fifty feet above; at least as large as the Great Hall in Hogwarts. Scattered throughout were groups of seats, all of them occupied. On the left, two guarded gateways led away from the waiting hall; labelled "Arrivée" and "Départ". This was a Portkey Terminal, _Paris – Avenue des Arcades_, as the huge sign above their heads said. Harry frowned at that.

"Don't you have to get the Portkey first?" he asked as Ana watched the people vanish in the departure passage.

"It's centralised here. The licensed travel agencies have offices up there," she answered shortly, pointing ahead. A curved cantilever staircase led up to a separate floor in a wide turn, put in at half height in the back of the hall. People stood at the railing of the gallery and looked down.

Ana and Harry crossed the hall and started to climb up the stairs. The desk of _Portoloins Internationaux_ was thankfully not overcrowded; only a short queue led up to the petite travel agent, who was talking busily with a client. She had dark brown hair which she flipped back unconsciously, pointing out something in a colourful travel brochure with her finger. For one moment she looked up, their eyes meeting.

And for one moment, his heart sped up. The magical spotlights above her counter made her dark eyes glitter … _the light from the star-like lamps embedded in the ceiling_ … Harry stood there, frozen, as if turned into stone. Her eyes stared directly into his, sparkling jauntily, a faintly mischievous smile playing on her lips … _framed by loose strands of hair, just inches away; close enough to make out the single lashes of her eyes_ … His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His own eyes searched for the small mark on her left cheek, and …

"… Harry?"

Harry blinked. She moved her head, the light changed and the apparition was gone. There was no mark. Her smile was cool and professional, her hair lighter. She shook the hand of the client, he left, and the next one had his turn.

Harry shook his head.

"Sorry, Ana. What did you say?"

"I was asking if you're going to wait here or do something else in the meantime?"

Ana had gotten in line; four people were before her in the queue.

"I'll wait."

Ana nodded, and he moved over to the wall, next to a poster in red and black, depicting a monumental gate-like building with a foursome horse and cart on top. "Visit Germania!" the text below said. From here, he watched the people moving around, to the news stand on the other side. The man who had just left the counter was now standing in front of the rack with the English-language papers, scowling heavily. He rubbed his moustache and turned towards the clerk, who was busy sorting new papers into other racks.

"He! Meister! Wo sind denn hier die deutschen Zeitungen?"

"Pardon?"

"Zei-tun-gen," he said clearly, pointing at the rack. "In Deutsch. Wo?"

The clerk just smiled pleasantly and nodded.

" Désolé, je ne parle pas allemand."

The man coloured rapidly.

"Verdammtes Franzosen-Pack," he swore angrily. "Ist es zuviel verlangt, in einem internationalem Zeitungskiosk auch internationale Sprachkenntnisse zu erwarten?"

Harry watched from the wall as he took his wand from within his travel cloak, and pointed it at the front page of a copy of the English version of the international _Magical Herald_, muttering: "_Translingua_."

He studied the page for a while, mumbling under his breath, before he looked up angrily.

"_Niemand hat die Absicht, eine Mauer zu errichten!_ Bah! Das ergibt doch kein Sinn."

Obviously, the translation charm had failed to do its job properly, and translated nonsense. Those spells were notoriously fickle, and that was the reason people used a Translacticus, which had complex language-spells embedded, preventing people from having to cast it themselves.

The customer flung the paper back on the pile and stomped away; casting one last dirty look at the clerk. Harry walked over to the stand the man had vacated, scanning the headlines. The one the man had translated said: _Spokesperson says: Nobody intends to start a war!_

–– _London (mia) The political tensions between France and Britain reached new heights last month, when Britain's Minister for Magic, Rufus A. Scrimgeour, declared that France was 'a shelter for terrorists and criminals of all kind' who needed to be 'exterminated eventually, if necessary by force' as they were 'a constant and direct threat to our [the British] sovereignty'. Today, a spokesperson from the Ministry played down the issue, when questioned about …_

He flipped through the pages, until he found the part the quote was from. It was a transcript from a press-conference; at whatever occasion.

_Annemarie Hochstätter, _"_Deutscher Magischer Bote_"_:_

_In your opinion, does the information you received that the remaining Death Eaters may be hiding in France mean that you will operate there? Are you determined to account for this fact, with all consequences?_

_S.:_

_I understand your question to mean that there are people in the Greater German Reich who wish us to mobilise our Aurors in order to invade France. I am unaware of any such intention. The Aurors are primarily employed with keeping up law and order in our country and they are working at full capacity. Nobody intends to start a war!_

He put the paper back down, and picked up a Daily Prophet. It had been some time since he had read anything from the isle. The headline covered half the page and screamed 'THE FELONY OF FRANCE'. Harry shook his head; it appeared he had missed nothing. He browsed through the sports section. Puddlemere lead the Quidditch League ('Wood saves spectacularly'), then another name he recognised caught his eye in the business section.

"_Should it continue at this rate, your normal family will soon be unable to afford Floo Travel," reckons Douglas Greengrass, businessman and importer of Floo Powder. He appealed to Minister Scrimgeour to do something. It could not be tolerated that France exploited its monopoly position "this impudently"._

"_My hands are tied," he says. "If the Française Nationale increases the price, I have to pass it on to my buyers."_

_That, however, is just one side of the problem. Flooing forms the backbone of the economy and is indispensable while transporting goods, yet Britain has to import almost ninety percent of its Floo Powder needs; wherefrom …_

Harry lowered the paper and grinned, wondering how Daphne would be. _That little bitch._ He'd never regretted their short fling. She fucked like a tiger. But apparently, it had worked out to her satisfaction as well, if Daddy's business was better than ever instead of stripped from him as it ought to; for the ugly little fact that Greengrass senior had supplied Death-Eaters, even if it was just for a short time and nothing substantial. Yes, the things a word from the Chosen One could achieve …

A movement made him look up. Over at the Portkey counter, Ana reached the font of the line. He shoved the _Prophet_ into the rack and walked back, but she was talking with the woman in French. The only thing he could gather was that there were complications. Finally Ana sighed and said something which prompted the travel agent to fetch a map of France, on which every Portkey Terminal was marked.

Harry watched them for a few more minutes, until the discussion seemingly came to a conclusion. Ana nodded in agreement, pulled quite a few galleons from her handbag and handed them over, receiving the small card with her number and notations of origin and destination in return – at the same time ticket and Portkey-to-be.

# # #

"Problems?" Harry asked when they were back outside. Ana looked at her typically red-striped card before she stored it in her handbag and shrugged.

"Some. There was no free slot from Paris until the day after tomorrow. Now I leave from Varengeville-sur-Mer instead, this evening at six o'clock."

Harry looked at her.

"Where on earth is Varin-whatsit … sur mer … that place?"

Ana sighed, but grinned and put her arm around him, pulling him towards her.

"Poor Harry. Let me rid you of your ignorance. Varengeville-sur-Mer is a little township in Normandy; to be more exact, in a wonderful sweep of country called the Pays du Caux. Directly at the Channel coast; on the Côte d'Albâtre."

"And they have a Portkey Terminal there because?"

"Because it's also used to trans-ship Floo Powder, from the mines directly next to it."

Harry snorted.

"So you'll go over the channel as cargo–"

"Mademoiselle Dupont?"

A voice behind them had called out, and Ana jumped. For a moment Harry was sure she would bolt, but she turned around, slow and cautious. He felt her muscles tense, ready to … what?

"Oui?" she asked.

An elderly woman with small glasses hurried towards them.

"Mais oui! Anastasia, chérie."

She'd reached them and hugged her, kissing her cheeks. Harry saw Ana's tension ebb away.

"Madame Bernard!"

"J'étais _sûre_ que c'était toi!" Then she noticed Harry. "And in company too! Bonjour, Monsieur Potter. How are you both?"

"Very well, thank you for asking," Ana said, while Harry nodded. "This is Madame Bernard, my Duelling teacher in Beauxbatons," she added to him.

"Former, now. I retired last year." Madam Bernard beamed at her. "It has been so long, dear … how old are you now? Twenty-four?"

"Twenty-five," corrected Ana. "My birthday was in June."

"Yes, yes." She looked at Ana fondly. "You always were one of the youngest in your year. But with marks _plus parfaite_ in Duelling. Why, I remember, when you beat –"

"Madam Bernard," Ana interrupted her. She waited until the woman looked at her and continued. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm afraid that I've got an urgent errant to run. I'm sorry. Perhaps another time?"

The retired Beauxbatons teacher looked a bit crestfallen, but nodded.

"Of course, Anastasia. You are welcome anytime at my house. Do look in, dear. The Auvergne is so beautiful in autumn."

Ana smiled at her.

"Definitely. I'll keep that in mind."

Madame Bernard hugged her again, and resumed her shopping. When she had left, Harry raised an eyebrow at Ana.

"An urgent errant?"

Ana grimaced.

"Yes, well … she's really not bad, but once she starts talking, she can go on for hours. I don't think I could have suffered through a full-blown 'do you remember when …'-afternoon. Besides, I do have a Portkey to catch."

They had begun walking again, slowly moving through the hustle and bustle of the early afternoon.

"At six. It's barely two now."

Ana shook her head.

"I want to be at the Terminal as soon as possible. I have to get that Portkey. I'd rather wait in there for four hours than have something unexpected happen and miss it by a minute."

They'd reached the marked circle of the official apparition point, and Ana stopped. Harry shrugged.

"Sounds a bit silly to me, but whatever."

He watched her disappear on the spot, with a small _pop_, before he concentrated on the location himself, and let the magic taker over. _One ticket to Varengeville-sur-Mer, please._

# # #

He arrived in a stone circle similar to the one he'd just left. Curiously, he peered around. He was standing in the middle of a thick forest, that even with autumn's thinning out of the beeches and oaks blocked the sight in any direction. Behind him, he spotted a hedged complex consisting out of several extensive but flat buildings, and a few taller ones. On the ground patrolled pairs of wizards in Auror blue.

"I have to admit that I did expect water and a beach, after what you told me," he drawled, earning a thump from Ana which he dodged.

"No, really. Are you sure we didn't accidentally end up instead in, say, Varengeville-in-the-Forest?"

"Yes, quite," she said dryly, pointing at the sign on the fence near a gate, which read _Poudre de Cheminette Manufacture Française Nationale_ and below that _Mines de France/Musée_ and _Varengeville-sur-Mer_, with the international Portkey-symbol next to the last line.

She entered the gate and they walked to the small building on the left. Affixed on the wall was the same symbol; two interlocked golden keys on red stripes. Harry opened the door. Inside was a single stuffy room with a door in the back and a desk on the right. Ana walked over to the desk. The room was laughably small compared to the Terminal in Paris; it had a single rickety wooden bench where an old woman sat and a table next to it with exactly one newspaper on top. Otherwise, the room was empty. It was the most desolate Portkey Terminal Harry had ever seen.

The man behind the desk looked bored. He placed Ana's card on the controlling device that vaguely resembled an old-fashioned scale, and read what appeared on the paper in front of him.

"Varengeville to London Central, six pm," he droned. "Once you've checked in, you can't leave the fenced area. Security reasons. You're also not allowed to enter the buildings of the Manufacture. Security reasons. You may visit the museum, a guided tour in English starts at two pm and takes approximately two hours. With your ticket, the entry is free, without one, it costs fifteen Sickles. Have fun."

Without looking up even once, he chucked back Ana's card, and resumed reading his magazine.

"What museum is he talking about?" Harry asked.

"You can visit the mines, apparently," Ana said.

She looked around the room and at the woman, who was now dozing on her bench, emitting a snore every other breath. A faint scowl appeared on her forehead.

"I think I might just as well take a look. It can't exactly be worse."

They left the Terminal again and walked over to the building the arrow with _Musée_ pointed at. It was one of the tall ones; a small group exited when they arrived. The guide, discernible by the badge on his robes, was just seeing them off in what sounded like German.

A new group formed quickly; apart from Harry and Ana, there was a family with a child, two older women and a few others. A group of young wizards joined them almost immediately, which increased the group to perhaps twenty people. Their guide smiled and looked at a pocket watch.

"Welcome. I believe we will wait for another five minutes to see if anyone else shows up, and then we will start."

The two women talked, and the child began to whinge. Harry waited with Ana in silence, observing the others. When it became clear that no one else would show up, the guide closed his watch with a snap and lowered it into his pocket. Then he collected the entrance fee.

"Well, if you would follow me …"

They walked over to the tall building, which turned out to be an elaborate illusion housing a complete headframe, built over a mine shaft on wide black iron feet. The cage in-between was quite large; expansive enough to fit the entire group, at least. The guide pushed the grille open and Harry and Ana entered behind him. Once everyone was inside, the grille slid shut, and the big wheels of the winch above their heads began to spin, unwinding the cable holding them as if by magic.

Well, it probably _was_ magic.

Over the rattle and clinging, the guide started to speak, while around them the ground rose up and the cage started to descend into darkness.

"The decommissioned part of the mines that we will visit is quite close to the surface, only thirty-five metres below sea level – or for you, eighty-two feet. But since we were are at an altitude of eighty-six metres, it means that we will have to ride one hundred and twenty-one metres into the deep. That's roughly four hundred feet, and will take us seven minutes. In that time, I will give you a quick summary of the history of Floo Powder in general, and about the mine we will visit in particular.

"The travelling via fires burning Fluvalite was the second way to travel by the means of magic, invented after the Roman Portkeys, but long before Apparation, whose early form was developed as a response to the witch hunts in 1643. And so it was already in 1068, when the Norman Baron Fluvialis rode through this land, that the recent history of Floo travelling began. The annals tell us about it …"

The guide cleared his throat and lowered his voice a bit, as if he was going to tell an immensely gripping story.

"On horseback, riding through thick woods, the Baron was surprised by nightfall. Too fatigued to create a Portkey, and with no hospitable tavern in sight, he decided to rest in the wilderness and began to build a fire. It was crackling merrily, and Baron Fluvialis had made himself comfortable next to it, when suddenly a green darting flame shot up. At first, he thought to be deceived by his tired eyes, but he quickly realised that it was not his fatigue playing tricks on him.

"Thereupon, he picked up a twig, and poked around in the fire, and when he pulled his twig back for a moment, he saw, to his utmost surprise, that at the very top it now, too, was burning green. And then he did something remarkably stupid: He took his left hand, and held a finger in the green flame of the twig.

"He had no idea what would happen. For all he knew, his hand could have gone up in flames, burnt by magical fire that no amount of water could have doused and no spell he knew could have extinguished. He could have lost his hand or even his life. Nevertheless, he was lucky, and instead of getting burned, he just felt a curious prickling sensation at his finger. He moved it around, and that was when he realised that he had stuck his entire finger into the small green flame, yet it did not appear on the other side. As he wrote, 'Truly! How most curious a moment, I felt as baffled as a forest troll in a river!'

"By chance, his gaze fell on his campfire next to him, and again, he wouldn't believe his eyes as he saw his missing finger poking from within the flames. The manuscript tells us of his first experiments that night; he was able to move the finger like it was connected to the rest of his hand and distance didn't matter at all. He tried other physical objects as well, his favourite eagle quill for example; and of course, the sudden gust of wind that moved the fire disintegrated the middle part of it, and what was left went up in flames, but the foundation was laid."

The circular patch of checked daylight over their heads, punctuated with the grating of the cage, had by now shrunken to the size of a Sickle. All that was left of everyone were shadowy outlines, since the lift had no light. As the guide paused, the only noise remaining was the rumbling of the shaking lift speeding into the deep. Ana leaned back against him, and he closed his arms in front of her.

"Today we know of course what put Baron Fluvialis in that great a flurry then; it was a spontaneous Floo connection like it is forged in nature from time to time. For example, we have knowledge of an ancient druid ritual called 'jumping through the fire', a test to prove one's daring, which can be roughly pictured as many different magically lit bonfires, nursed until spontaneous Floo connections had formed, through which young men had to jump – a great risk, of course, because spontaneous Floo connections are very much unstable in nature and prone to collapsing, as suddenly as they form. And even if they only shifted in mid-travel, it usually lead to the demise of poor fellow jumping through it.

"But Baron Fluvialis was the first to conduct systematic experiments, carefully laid down on over three hundred pages, and thus the mineral he eventually discovered is named in his honour. For almost two hundred years, his discoveries were the height of knowledge and determined the way it was used; with what we today call 'forced spontaneous connections'. Meaning, that while connected at will, the established link was still forged spontaneously, and as unstable as ever …"

The guide continued to tell about the further studies of this phenomenon, which eventually led to the refinement of the Fluvalite through the means of magic, and the invention of the node-crystal in 1252, which enabled the wizards to create the very first Floo Network.

"At that time, it was highly expensive, and having a fire connected to the Node was seen as symbol of status. Comte de Mal-Foix, for example, was said to be 'a man so rich to powder his nose with Floo'. That was also the first time the powder was referred to as 'Floo Powder' in writing, an abridged version of the correct 'Fluvalite Powder', and the short form stuck.

"The costs stemmed mainly from the refining process, which was very inefficient; much Fluvalite was needed, more than could be found simply lying on the ground, which was how Baron de Fluvialis discovered it when it ended up in his fire. So mines had to be developed, and the wizards used subjected Goblins for that task from a quelled rebellion just one year prior. Of course, the Goblins were not happy to be used for wizard's menial work without adequate compensation, which led to a series of new rebellions in the mines, starting as early as 1394 …"

The lift descended further while the guide summarised the development of the mine over the centuries, which went deeper and more far-reaching, always following the richest seams. From below, a light started to shimmer through the darkness, and when the lift reached its source, the guide had reached the present, with the six hundred year anniversary of the French Mines coop, which ran the mines.

The grille clattered open, and the group exited. More lights flared to life, glistering and sparkling, reflected thousandfold from the snow-white chalk walls, and Harry had to shield his eyes at the sudden brightness. Next to him, Ana didn't fare much better.

Once his vision had adjusted, he saw that they stood in a spacious cave, with several tunnels branching off. Their guide was standing in the middle, and resumed his explanations.

"As you can see on this map –" a clear picture of the world appeared on the cave wall "–Fluvalite is an exceedingly rare mineral. Apart from France, only Tibet and Australia have noteworthy deposits …"

Harry watched the map while the guide explained; apparently France had one third of the world's known deposits of Floo. Another map showed Europe with France in the centre; arrows emanated from it into the surrounding countries. The thickest stretched east, to the bulky mass of the Second Empire dominating mainland Europe. In its centre, marked as the capital, was Germania. Harry stepped closer. Binns had always focused on Britain and Goblin wars, and he knew next to nothing about the rest of the continent. The Empire stretched far to the east and north, up along the Baltic Sea; further north than even Scotland. Somewhere there had to be Durmstrang.

"… with Britain as the second largest importer of the powder."

The guide pointed with his wand at the arrow from France to Britain.

"Britain possesses small own deposits, in the hills of the Downs in the southeast, which is logical, given the fact that it is largely the same stone as this one; belonging together in a geological sense, perhaps most obvious in the escarpments of the opposing chalk cliffs on either side of the English Channel. However, for a reason that isn't clear yet, it's not nearly as rich as its counterpart on this side of the channel and only barely worth mining."

The maps vanished, and he started walking.

"In the next cave, we will see amongst other things a cross section from this area detailing the different layers with different types of chalk, which will show that this area is indeed quite blessed."

Everyone followed him to the tunnel on the far end of the cave, which was only a few paces long, before it widened to a second, equally brightly lit cave. A few strange-looking tools were piled up in one corner, appearing to be long out of use. The once gleaming metal was dull and rusty.

The guide pointed his wand on the clear wall, and a new picture sprung up. It was a profile of the land, starting with the ridge of the South Downs on the English side of the Channel. On the other side of the blue area was Varengeville-sur-Mer, symbolised by a house, as well as the shaft with the lift and other galleries, on various floors.

"The layer of chalk possesses a thickness of over two hundred metres and is divided into three sub-layers. It runs obliquely …"

Next to Ana, the small boy started to tug at his father's robes.

"Daddy, what's that red line mean?"

He was looking at the thick red bar dividing the cross section into two parts, vertically. The question had been whispered, but the guide heard it nonetheless.

"It marks the Border, of course," he explained proudly. "_La Frontière_, the greatest work ever done by wizards and witches of our nation. No other country in the world has one that is as complete and impermeable as ours, which is – hm – _ironique_, given that it was devised from the enchantments of Merlin's Tower, where our Nimue had entrapped him using his own powers. So really, it's originally English and we truly do thank you for it."

Ana grumbled something uncomplimentary and Harry grinned. The Tower, relocated from Brocéliande in Brittany to the central place in wizarding France for everyone to see, was a sore spot for every English wizard when it came to Merlin. That was also the reason every French wizard loved it. Well, that, and because it attracted hordes of tourists with money.

Harry was one of the few who didn't mind either way. Merlin had tried to invade France, met Nimue walking barefooted on the shore in a skimpy white gown and decided at a moment's notice to abandon all war plans, choosing to screw the hot French Veela instead. Harry could totally understand that. Merlin was a smart fellow and had his priorities straight.

And now he had a completely inappropriate vision of Fleur stuck in his head. Damn.

One of the group of younger wizards asked in broken English: "Tis Border. Vat exactly it does? Why the best?"

"Ah, that would be because it not only keeps out people, but also prevents them from travelling by magical means within the country once inside, if they still entered illegally by non-magical means. Grindelwald tried that during the Great War, walking past the Border, that is, and left just one day later, focusing on the east, which made France and later Britain the only countries without loss in territory."

The guide continued to point out geological and aquiferous sediments in the section, and Harry looked at the vertical red line. Although the picture gave a width of roughly sixty-five miles for the channel, the Border was here quite close to the land, barely two miles off the coast. The guide moved on to yet another map, this one showing the layout of the mine, and Harry started to get bored, even though Ana appeared to be absorbing every word. He listened with only half an ear, while the guide now explained the route they would take.

"… the two caves we just walked through. This part of the mine is the oldest part, historically speaking; the first drifts were made directly near the coast, while today the work is done deeper and further inland. We will not be able to visit those areas for security reasons. It's too dangerous for untrained wizards and witches to stay there while the Goblins are working. Instead we will follow this route, through the galleries there and here, all of which are decommissioned. As you can see, the mine even extends as far as two miles out under the sea, but those areas are closed or blocked …"

Harry's attention was attracted by a thump into his side. Ana was looking at him, her eyes gleaming.

"Under the sea, Harry. What do you think?"

Harry started to grin. That was the Ana he knew.

"Didn't he say it was closed?" he whispered back.

"Yes. So?"

The guide had started to walk again and was now on the other side of the elongated cave. The other visitors had followed him, leaving Harry and Ana lagging behind.

"Well, so it might be dangerous there?"

Ana just looked at him.

"Alright, so you _were_ waiting for arguments against it, not in favour." Harry's grin widened. "Well, I don't think I have any."

She shook her head, and with a quick charm duplicated the map on the wall showing the course of the tunnels. She shrunk it slightly and they closed up to the group again. The ceiling lowered and the walls moved together, and the cave turned almost imperceptibly into a gallery. As opposed to the bright magical lights in the caves, it was illuminated by torches, fixed on the wall with iron holders in regular intervals; every dozen paces. The flames danced in the draught of the passing people, sending large shadows scurrying over the rough walls of the tunnel.

The guide told something about tools and magic used to drive tunnels, when the gallery took a sharp turn to the right. Ana hissed quietly, looking at her map, and pulled Harry to the left. There, hidden in the shadow of a sudden advance, a new tunnel forked from the main gallery. Harry quickly looked around; no one was paying them any mind. They shirked from the group, vanishing in the deep shadows, climbing into the gaping dark hole.

# # #

It turned out to be quite narrow. Harry and Ana had to walk behind each other and duck their heads; risking to bump against the ceiling otherwise, since there was no light. The flickering gleam of the torches lost its luminosity on the first metre into the new tunnel, leaving them in complete and utter darkness, feeling their way ahead with uncertain hands roaming gallery walls. The golden-glowing tunnel mouth fell slowly behind, a dim semi-circle of light in their back, and eventually, even that vanished. Only then Ana lit her wand.

"_Lumos_."

The air was cold, even colder than in the part of the mine they'd just left. The white walls were speckled with pockets of black; wickedly sharp edges, flint. Ana looked at it intensely.

"We must be out from under the cliffs," she murmured.

They walked along the gallery, which started to twist and turn more and more. The small dots of light from their wands showed the walls starting to glisten wet, reflecting the light like little diamonds. They moved in silence; only their breathing resounded in Harry's ears and the soft _drip-drip_ of the water droplets splashing on the ground … until there was a new sound. Faintly at first, but soon it became a constant on their walk. A muffled roar, over their heads, now increasing slightly, the next moment ceasing a little, but never disappearing completely.

And suddenly, Harry realised what he was hearing. It was the sea, surging above their heads, breakers crashing against the feet of the cliffs. The restless sea, moving in continuous waves back and forth somewhere above their heads. He began to eye the trails of water running from the walls and alongside their way a little more closely. There were tens of thousands tons of water right above their heads; bearing down on the rocks, constantly gnawing at them, removing grain after grain, digging its way down, down to them …

It was a disturbing thought. He felt a pleasant shiver running down his spine.

Ana nudged him in the side. "The sea."

"I know."

And onwards they walked, with the thundering sea as their sole companion. Their way led them steadily down, and eventually, the gallery widened into a small cave, with three forks. Ana set down her bag and pulled out the map again. Kneeling over it on the ground, she tossed back her hair and placed the wand on top of the map.

"_Point me_," she whispered, and her wand spun around. She orientated the map, while Harry illuminated it for her.

"Yes … we have to go … down."

Her voice echoed in cave, resounding from the walls a few times before it faded away to a whisper.

"Down?" Harry asked blankly.

"There." Ana pointed ahead. In the middle of the cave's ground was a grate, slightly askew, and very much rusty.

"Every other way is blocked. See?"

She flipped her wand up and snapped: "_Sphigneus!_"

A small ball of compressed fire burst from the tip of her wand, roaring forward, across the cave and into the tunnel to their right. Not ten feet into it, it exploded in a burst of orange flames against a massive pile of stone. For one moment the entire tunnel was brightly lit, bathed in fire. A mine collapse had made it unusable. The fire vanished a heartbeat later, and plunged everything back into deep, inky darkness.

"That'd be the way. And I want to go a bit further. We still have half an hour, before we have to turn back."

Harry watched her carefully and then shrugged.

"Alright."

He levitated the grate of the mine shaft, revealing the first rungs of a wooden ladder. Harry looked at it warily. Ana appeared on his side, brushing off dust of her clothes, the bag again over her shoulder. She stared down into the shaft as well.

"It should be safe."

She unceremoniously lowered herself into the hole and started to climb down. Harry watched her disappear and started to climb down after her.

# # #

The ladder was seemingly endless. They climbed in the dark, wands tucked safely away because both hands were needed. One rung after the next, left foot, right foot; a monotonous movement for what seemed like an eternity. They took a break every so often, but still Harry's arms started to get tired. The air flowing up from below was warm and close, smelling stale.

While he wiped sweat from his forehead and his hands afterwards, to not slip on the ladder, his look went down, through the invisible rungs just inches in front of him, swallowed by the ever present blackness. Most likely the dark was a good thing, because it hid the gaping abyss under his feet.

Ana started to climb again, and he followed her. More rungs followed, only felt out with his hands in the eternal night of the mines, but just when he started to get fed up with the never ending climbing, a low exclamation from Ana a couple feet under him alerted him. She had reached solid ground.

Harry stood next to her, looking around. The gallery ran into two directions, completely straight. One end seemed to glow very slightly, in the very far distance; a flickering orange. Harry fancied he heard metallic clanging and scraping, but it could have been his imagination. Only then he realised that it was still fairly warm even though he wasn't climbing anymore. The sound of the sea was also gone.

He touched the walls, which had lost their pure white colour and turned deep black. They weren't nearly as cool to the touch as he'd have thought.

"It's warm."

He saw Ana nodding in her wandlight; she flicked it, and suddenly, figures appeared in the air for a short moment.

"Twenty degrees. It means we have to be over nine hundred feet below the sea."

"How do you know?" Harry asked, looking at her strangely.

"We had around eleven degree directly below the surface, and the temperature goes up by one degree every hundred feet. _Point me_."

Her wand spun again, and she started to walk away from the dim light. "This way."

Harry hurried to close the gap, walking up next to her. She seemed quite determined to reach something. He wondered what.

"You know, not that think I walking a thousand feet under the earth isn't cool, but what about the way back?"

Ana took her watch out of her bag and fastened it on her arm, without pausing in her steps.

"We've only been away for half an hour. The tour is just about halfway done, so we still have some time."

She turned her head to look at him and smiled.

"Just a bit farther."

They walked in silence again, black rock lighted by white dots of light at the tip of their wands. After a few minutes, he thought he saw something in the distance ahead; a small flicker perhaps.

"_Nox_."

Ana looked at him questioningly, but copied him.

When the darkness swallowed them, something else appeared out of it. A faint glow, like an emergency light, with no real source, but too prominent to be just a trick of the eye.

"Yes," breathed Ana next to him.

"What?"

"Come on!"

She relit her wand, and walked quickly onwards, with long strides; reaching the source of the light in a mere minute. It was like a curtain of red light, hazy and constantly moving; with small strands fizzling out wherever they met rock, running over it, releasing small sparks into the air.

"What is that, then?" Harry asked, trying to peer through it. It appeared like the gallery ended in a dead end shortly behind it.

Ana stared at the churning veil of red.

"That, Harry, is the Border." She sounded awed. "Visible only because of the magical nature of the rocks, and the dust and particles they emit into the air. It creates a feedback."

Harry turned slowly.

"You knew it would be here, like that?"

Ana shrugged.

"I suspected something like this, yeah."

Placing her handbag on the ground directly in front of the Border, she moved forward and stuck her left hand into it, watching as the red darted out; small forked tongues licking a her skin, jumping randomly up and down and along her arm, as she pushed it further inside. Something rustled softly. Ana pulled her arm back at once, looking at it. Threads of red were pulled back with it, like a sticky syrup. It seemed to part with her hand most unwillingly.

"I was curious to see what it would look like."

They stared at it for a while. It was magic in the most condensed form possible, surrounding an entire country. And even this deep within the bowels of the earth, it had still lost nothing of its power.

Eventually, Ana looked at her watch and turned to go.

"The tour will be over in forty-five minutes. We have to walk back."

# # #

They made it just in time. The group was in the first cave when Harry and Ana inconspicuously joined in at the back. No one had noticed that they'd been absent for the longest time. Climbing into the lift, they listened to the final words of the guide.

"And so, the Mines de France supply only the PCMFN, which has the monopoly on Floo Powder in France. You might have noticed the large building on the other side of the mine shafts, but it's closed for non-employees, of course. And from there, it is exported into the whole world."

The cage reached the circular patch of white daylight over their heads. The guide smiled at everyone.

"In mine as well in as in the name of Mines de France, I thank you for your interest. I hope it was an at least slightly interesting insight into the history and winning of Fluvalite …"

The lift stopped, back above the ground, and the door slid open.

"Have a nice –"

"Nobody move!"

He was interrupted by two grim-looking wizards in blue robes, who had been waiting on either side of the shaft. Everyone around Harry and Ana froze. Restless mutters started to spread throughout the group. People looked over to the guide, but he seemed as surprised as anyone. The child looked up fearfully and huddled closer to his parents.

"Silence!" barked the taller one of the two.

They scrutinised the group quickly, until their eyes rested on Harry and Ana.

"You two. Move it!"

* * *

**_More clues, and the (political) stage is set. Next chapter it's back to England, and perhaps there'll be a _**_hint_**_ of Fleur, too :D_**


	4. Episode Three: Strange Occurrences

**A/N:**

Well, it's been almost two years(? !), but as I said in my profile, the story isn't dead. I just need time to write it, which I don't have. Which, if you're picky (and I am) isn't the same as dead. Anyway, absymal update rate aside, here's a new chapter. I've actually been working on a new story that A) will be shorter, and B) will be finished before I start posting. That's really the only solution to my problem, but it doesn't help TFA.

Oh well. I hope you still enjoy, and maybe look for my new story (HP/DG) in a month or two. Thanks for your reviews (I responded where I could), and thanks to Andro/Melnivone for looking over the first part and getting me back on track. Before he looked at it, it was quite crappy. If it still is, it's my fault, not his.

**NOTE:** If you want more good stories, do take a look at our DLP C2, founded by _enembee_ - it's collecting the highest rated stories of our Library. This story is in it too.

- SS

* * *

**T**HE **F**RENCH **A**FFAIR

**Episode Three:** Strange Occurrences

_The light of those little spot lamps in the bar were dimmed, gleaming low like tiny stars, reflecting and sparkling in the bottles and glasses. There was the hum of people's voices at his back, almost drowned by the melancholy solo of the saxophone from the band in the corner._

_There was the smell of tobacco, spicy and smoky, and it blended with the taste of the Bordeaux red to something typically _bar-tabac_-like, wrapping him in a warm cocoon. _

_And then there was her._

_It was sometime around midnight, he thought, lifting his glass and taking a deep swallow. She was sitting next some guy with a moustache, wearing a white dress, drinking, too, nodding at something he said at the same time; lowering her glass again, holding it easily just below the rim. Suddenly, she lifted her head, and their gazes met. She raised the glass once more, as to salute him._

_The white dress made her skin seem olive, almost._

_He watched her petite form as she bent forward to say something, brushing a strand of her behind her ears making a small earring sparkle, and speaking next to that man's ear in order be understood, while the band started a new song. She placed the glass on the table, upon which the man gaped and turned his head. She placed a hand on the man's shoulder, rising, and sauntered over to him, the man watching her with an expression torn between befuddlement and anger. He darted them a furious look, then snarled something and stood up and left._

_He heard her laughter, playful and mischievous._

"_It's not nice to lead those poor guys on, Inès."_

_She slid onto the barstool next to him and tossed her hair, in a movement full of high spirits. Her dark eyes flashed._

"_He bought me a drink. He was most insistent."_

_He shook his head, seeing the mirth sparkling in eyes, drank in the smile on her lips, until she, not caring who was watching at all, was grabbing his collar and kissing him passionately right here; with the kind of passion only Southern European girls had._

_Eventually, she leant against his side and sighed, an arm thrown loosely around him, but ready to grab possessively at a moment's notice; and for a second, he did nothing but breath in the scent of her hair and enjoying her hand on his arm._

"_I haven't seen you in a while."_

_She shrugged._

"_Busy. You know how it is."_

_She grabbed his glass and downed the rest of wine, flicking the glass down the counter afterwards._

"_You could always work less, you know."_

_Her eyes flared up._

"_You know how I feel about my work."_

_And again, there was the passion, the fire in her eyes she always displayed when talking about things she loved, and one of the many things he loved about her. Everything she did she did with all she had, be it working or loving; and that meant a part of that fire was now exclusively reserved for him._

_Barely reaching up to his chin, she was a bundle of her energy; he couldn't get enough of her, her laugh, her temperamental nature, her quicksilver sense of humour; she teased him, blew up at him, apologised profusely instants later and made up _–_ and he did the same. Best friend, lover, love _–_ all rolled in one, and she had more than enough energy to fill each role and more._

_And whenever he held her close, just like now, there were the memories _–_ how she was lying in his arms, naked, when he couldn't help but notice just how perfectly her smaller frame fit into his, curled against him, and how lucky he was to have found her._

"_Whatcha thinking about?"_

"_Your body."_

_She let out a clear laugh. "I'm flattered, Mr. Potter."_

_He revelled in the mirth dancing in her eyes, the smile on her face that always managed to elicit one of his own._

"_As you ought to be."_

_He treaded his finger through her hair, pausing as he saw her smile turning mischievous. "_–_ but I do think that sounds rather shallow, hmm?"_

_He grinned._

"_With you, I'm allowed to be."_

_And that neatly summed it up. He tossed a few coins onto the bar counter and looked at her._

"_You have the night?"_

_Her dark eyes glowed, smouldering like embers, promising what was ahead._

"_The entire night and the next day."_

He abruptly woke from his dream by a hand brushing over his cheek.

"Morning," she said softly.

It took him a second to realise where he was. Ana, not Inès. No imaginary _bar-tabac_, but Ana's little cottage in Hogsmeade, back in England. There was a pang of regret in his chest, before her could push it away. But at least he could pretend it hadn't been there.

He regarded the bed-tousled hair that was light, not dark, and eventually, she pulled him close, kissing him softly and the dream faded, back into the far back of his mind where it belonged.

Ana sighed contentedly, her arm around him, and for a while he thought of nothing in particular, playing with her hair, gazing through dim grey light in the room, at the dark shadows that were the thick oaken beams on the ceiling, then at the green eyes that blinked at him, still a little sleepy. It was early; and they'd arrived rather late that night before, tired enough to fall straight into bed.

Harry stretched his arms and cracked his neck from side to side.

"Any plans for today? Do you still have holiday?" His voice was a little scratchy from the sleep.

Ana nodded against his chest.

"Some errands, but we should have most of the day to ourselves."

"Ministry stuff?"

"Mmh."

She yawned, slowly becoming wide-awake.

"Shouldn't take longer than an hour. Feel free to stay here, in any case."

"I rather thought I might be having a chat there too. I can't _believe_ they kicked us out like that. I'll file a complaint with the French delegate, that's for damn certain."

He felt her head twist, suddenly, and she propped her head up with her arms on her pillow.

"No. Please don't, Harry. Leave it be. We got out fine, no one was harmed, so isn't it alright?"

He bit down on throwing Inès' name into her face. He didn't want to argue about her. He didn't want to argue at all, but she made that so damn hard.

"Why in Merlin's name wouldn't I, Ana? They threw me out of the country when for once I hadn't done a damn thing. They can't possibly think they'd get away with that. And don't give me that 'it doesn't involve you'-line. It stops being your matter the when _I_ get kicked out of France for being a spy."

All of a sudden, her eyes flashed angrily.

"You wanted to come. I asked you not to, Harry. You went anyway. No, you don't get to complain when you decided not to listen."

The moment she had said it, she looked already guilty, but it passed quickly enough and she looked at him defiantly. He stared at her open-mouthed, before he realised what she had said.

"Oh, how nice. So you knew what would happen. Which means if I hadn't insisted to come along, you would have happily visited your dear uncle with a one-way ticket and left me behind in France without as much as a good-bye. Wonderful, Ana. Was that your plan too?"

Her head jerked up and her eyes widened. He saw genuine hurt and felt bad at once, cursing himself alternately for saying it out loud, and for allowing her to make him feel bad, when it was nothing but the truth.

"No! Harry, that wasn't – it wasn't like that at all. Please." She grabbed his hand. "I _thought_ something like this could happen – you know how serious the situation between Britain and France is right now. But I wouldn't have left you – us like that. Not like that. I'd have come back. You know I would have. It's a different matter entirely."

Except it wasn't, and that was the problem.

"I'll get to the bottom of this, Ana. First stop is Rousselier. Except if there is something you would want to tell me?"

She didn't answer.

"Please don't?" she said. Her green eyes stared at him pleadingly.

Harry shook his head.

"Not good enough, Ana. Not this time. Give me one good reason, just one, and I promise to leave it be."

The pleading look was gone. The green was now looking at him frostily and a little annoyed. He wondered if he would ever see that look again. He wondered if Ana realised where this was heading.

"You know I can't tell you."

Each refusal dealt a blow for their relationship. Each new argument made it crumble a little more. Maybe he shouldn't have pressed the point. Perhaps. Not talking about it didn't make it go away. It was still there. _Now, in five minutes, in an hour._ Still there, still standing between them, still pushing them apart.

On the ceiling, the dusky light had changed and the shadows now seemed to hide the solid oak beams, wrapped around them, swallowed them. Outside, beyond the grey rectangle that was the window, it was autumn.

He felt melancholic.

It wasn't just some interesting mystery, exciting to unravel because he'd been a little bored. It moved her into one direction, and him into the opposite. It broke them apart, and he didn't know if he had the will to fix it.

She pushed the blanket back and rose, her voice now decidedly cooler.

"And even if I could, I wouldn't, just so that we're clear."

That was Ana. Never hiding behind others or bringing up excuses, straightforward and to the point. He appreciated it, and was attracted to it, her directness; she never left you guessing, if she wasn't in the mood for something she told you so quite clearly. Now, however, it made him angry.

He watched how she stood in the room, her lean, athletic form with her back towards him, naked and stubborn. _Nothing but the flip side of her good qualities._ She didn't grace him with a look and started to march towards the bathroom.

"Then the Ministry it is," he called after her.

Ana stopped and turned around.

"Do whatever the hell you want, Harry. You're doing it all the time, anyway. I don't even know why I bothered to ask."

She tossed her hair off her shoulder with a flick of her head, and a minute later her heard the shower running.

"Just like you," he told the door through which she'd left. "Just like you."

# # #

Eventually, Harry rose as well. Staring at the shadowy beams on the ceiling changed neither Ana's stubborn mind and fixed their relationship, nor did it bring him any answers regarding Inès.

So he now stared out of the window.

Outside, it was dreary, but at least dry. The grey, soft light of dawn crept tentatively through the village, as if not yet sure that it might be allowed to stay. Autumn was well and truly there. The wind ruffled the trees, and they sighed and parted with their leaves. Inside, the shower stopped, and Ana went down into the kitchen. He remained at the window. The leaves floated to the ground.

The bedroom was on the first floor, looking out over the front lawn towards the road that was winding itself through the village. It was a still sandy-brown band, partly hidden in banks of autumn fog that drifted past and obscured Honeydukes a little further down the road. Nothing moved, only a few crows in the large elm next to the fence disturbed the early morning's calmness with their hoarse cawwing.

The front door opened and closed. Ana walked out. Her feet kicked up the leaves on the path to the gate. The crows scattered, cawwing mournfully. Suddenly she stopped, turning back around, staring up, as if she knew he'd be there. He thought she looked sad.

Perhaps it was the window glass.

He'd stopped wondering why she did what she did. Whatever it was, it had appealed to her sense of duty, and nothing was stronger than that. She would finish what she set out to do.

Even if it meant arguing with him. Even if it brought her to her breaking point, like it had after Inès death. _Even if it made her cold and standoffish._ Ana hadn't always been like this.

_Got out alright indeed._

She was gone, now. He stared at the street, foggy and cold. That he understood her didn't mean he didn't resent it and that he wasn't angry. And that he hadn't wanted to leave France was just the smallest point.

He had liked the Côte just fine. The weather was better, the girls were nicer, and he was just _enough_ known there to be interesting, and _not_ enough known to be bothered by overzealous fans and reporters. He'd have preferred to stay there.

Well, now that hadn't been an option at all.

Harry scowled, annoyed.

They had been led straight from the entry of the mines across the grounds to the flat white buildings on the other side, three or four separate, almost windowless structures which all looked the same, apart from the chimney that topped the leftmost one and emitted a thin wisp of nearly translucent smoke into the overcast sky.

Protests had fallen on deaf ears, and so he'd slowly reached for his wand, which of course they hadn't taken away – they couldn't, not unless they actually were able to accuse them of something – he'd reached for his wand, reasonably certain that he could take on the two Aurors, as could Ana, for that matter, so together they had a good chance at demanding answers, when he felt her fingers on his hand, pressing it slightly down. She shook her head fractionally.

"It's alright, Harry," she said loftily, obviously more for the benefit of the Aurors than for him. "We did nothing wrong, and those two gentlemen will realise that soon enough."

He stared at her incredulously, wondering what she was playing at, and if she was actually serious. It appeared she was. His fingers hesitated over his wand, but in the end, he gave in.

He felt the stares of the other visitors at his back while they were shoved through the double door into the middle building, which he suspected was the administrative one, if only for the fact that it alone bore a small golden plate next to the doors with the same lettering _Poudre de Cheminette Manufacture Française Nationale_ as on the fence.

The door opened and closed on their own, and inside was more white; a bare, long corridor, with a window on the left side behind which a sullen-looking gateman sat, and no obvious door that led into that room. There was no waiting area, no elegant reception, no chairs or benches to sit. It didn't look as if the _Française Nationale_ had visitors regularly. It didn't look like they made a habit of receiving visitors at all.

The Aurors led them past the gateman and past the corridor, deeper into the building that was still white, but now had lots of doors on either side. All of them were closed, until the taller of the two Aurors, a rough-looking wizard with a square jaw and small eyes, opened a door on their right.

"Inside," he grunted. Harry stepped inside, as the tall Auror threatened to shove him. Ana stopped, looking at them questioningly. The other Auror moved for her to go on. Harry whirled around.

"Hey! Where are you go-"

"Shut up," snapped the first Auror. He looked at Harry hostilely. "Shut up. English traitors don't get to ask anything. Not in my presence."

"I'll do exactly as I like."

Harry moved back out of the room he'd already entered, towards the door. The square-jawed Auror stood in the doorway, blocking it. Harry advanced on him. The man didn't back away. They stood a few inches apart. He could see Ana behind the Auror.

"Move," Harry said softly.

Square-Jaw sneered.

"I don't think so."

The wand was in Harry's hand in a flash, but the Auror had already drawn as well.

"_Try it_," hissed Square-Jaw.

Harry eyes drilled themselves into the man only a few inches away.

"Voldemort's words before he lost. Badly. Move, or I'll move you."

He lifted his wand.

"No, Harry!" cried Ana. "Stop! Put the wand away!"

The small dark eyes stared at him hatefully. They held naked desire to attack, just waiting for a reason. Harry wanted to oblige. He wanted to blast him out of the doorway and through the next wall, and then wipe the floor with him.

_To hell with being responsible and the consequences._

He didn't know why he didn't. The Auror likewise made no move. A tense second passed. And then another one, and another one.

"Please!"

Ana looked at him past the Aurors, desperately, almost.

"It will be alright, I promise. Just lower your wand and answer his questions as well as you _can_. I'll clear this up and get us out."

Harry stared at her. She stood next to the second, black-haired Auror. Her eyes were pleading and her look seemed to be trying to tell him something. He had no idea what.

He slowly lowered his wand and tucked it away.

"Your lucky day," Harry told the square-jawed Auror across of him. "And now tell me what the hell your bloody problem is."

Square-jaw sneered.

"You."

He jabbed Harry inside the room whose door he'd opened, while Ana and the other Auror walked away. The room looked like any ordinary anteroom in the world might. It had a desk with memo-quills lying ready, next to a stack of fresh parchment, cabinets on the wall from which files could be summoned, a window where there couldn't be one normally, and few chairs to sit and wait. Only a secretary was absent.

The one thing that didn't fit the image was golden device on the desk that looked a little like a crooked, bent car antenna. The Auror picked it up and Harry relaxed a little. Checking for hidden magical objects was standard procedure with international Portkey travels. Only, of course, that he had no intention of going anywhere.

He wondered if the Auror knew.

"Probity Probe," grunted the man, handling the device that vibrated and gave off odd little noises.

Harry also wondered why they had led them here, then, into the off-limits corporative buildings, instead of using the detectors they had at the terminal; and could not find an answer. He put his watch on the table, and then he was poked and prodded with wands and detectors in various places. It was a mixture of Madam Malkin's and Filch in their sixth year. A few more things ended up on the desk. Things he carried in his pocket, that set the detector off – a chocolate frog card of Grindelwald (_'Leader of the Greater German Reich'_), an old Ton-Tongue Toffee, a couple of Galleons, a little dragon figure he'd transfigured from a pebble on the beach one time he was bored that he had completely forgotten about, and from the very bottom, a broken amulet and a silver dagger.

_Mementos of the War._

For a second, he was back in Britain, five years ago, hunting for Voldemort.

_The hand clenched around a dagger _–_ the blade, not the hilt. Red seeped through his fingers, slowly dripping to the ground. He pressed harder. The burning pain was almost ignorable, now … There was a bright flash _–_ A bright flash _–_ and the amulet broke …_

He wrest his mind from the past, unclenching his fingers that he closed painfully tight around the two halves. They left his hand, tumbling down onto the table. He didn't want to think about it. Not again. Not anymore. The past was the past.

_Too many memories._

Square-Jaw took no notice of them or him. His eyes had lit up as they saw the tiny transfigured dragon figurine, immediately jumping at it, his wand pointed at it in a flash.

"Reverso!"

He used the standard spell to re-transfigure the model dragon into what it was before, wanting to find out how it reverted back. And it reverted back – into a small round pebble.

He stared at the pebble on his desk. His face showed utter disbelief. Then he roared and flung the innocent grey stone at the wall. "Where is it? Where is it, Potter?"

His hand swiped the items off the desk, enraged. "It's not here!"

He was shouting, his face a mask of rage; and he advanced on Harry, who backed away slowly, warily lifting his wand. He bumped into the wall and could get back no further. This was not good.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Harry wasn't presumptuous enough to assume the Auror hated him specifically. It was more a global hate of foreigners in general and Englishmen in particular, and he was an obvious target. Fuck knows he was trying his best to diffuse the situation. Ana would be proud. The Auror looked like he didn't appreciate his efforts. His face was flushed, an unflattering shade of red.

Then, all of a sudden, he turned away.

"I see. I think I'll be so nice and offer you time to think, then. Perhaps that'll help you remember."

Harry let out a breath, putting away his wand, and found himself pushed onwards across the room, towards a door beyond the desk, and now the real difference between this anteroom and an ordinary one became clear. Where the office of some head of department would have been, there was a completely white room with nothing but a metal desk and two chairs on either side of it.

An interrogation room.

"I'll come by, sometime."

Square-Jaw sneered again, and the door clicked shut behind them.

Harry frowned. They still wouldn't take away his wand, true, but now they left him alone as well. Didn't they fear he might escape? The door had no handle on this side, but that was no problem.

_Alohomora._

Nothing happened. Harry frowned again.

"Lumos."

The wand remained unlit. And suddenly, the white room felt oppressive. It was weighing down on him, cancelling all and any magic, leaving him feeling naked and vulnerable. He pushed the thoughts away and returned to the desk, sitting down on one side. Well. At least that mystery was cleared up.

His fingers drummed on the metal, producing small, rapid _pling_ noises. Where was Ana? Harry stared at the door that remained closed, and around the magic-less room that felt uncomfortable because of it and was white and nothing else. No dirty spots or perhaps a cobweb or anything that made a shred of difference in the shade. The floor was white and the ceiling and the walls. He was getting restless. Why was he here?

He wondered if it had anything to do with the St Tropez incident. He had been seen. He had waited for a call from the French Ministry, truthfully. Perhaps this was it. Then again, why would they hold him in a corporative building, instead of the French Auror headquarters?

It all didn't make sense. And _it_ seemed to be in a rather high demand. The one man that talked to him in St Tropez had asked about _it_ as well. On the other hand, that one could have easily meant the bag he'd pursued at that time. Apparently, they thought he was carrying something. Trying to get it out of France, even. Whatever it was. Everyone seemed to know more than he did.

If there was one thing he hated, it was not knowing what was going on.

He jumped up, annoyed, pacing the room. Would it be too much to ask to get someone in here and start doing whatever the hell they wanted to do, and then leave him in peace for his dinner? It wasn't as if he had done anything! For once, he actually was innocent.

Almost three exhausting hours later, he was cursing himself for wanting someone to come. He was just starting to give a detailed account of the bygone week for the third time.

They had eventually deigned it time to come in, and started questioning him. It had been the two Aurors that had led them inside that asked questions; they took turns. The smaller, dark-haired one sat opposite of him, the table in-between them. Square-Jaw breathed down his neck.

It had taken Harry five minutes into the interrogation to realise the important thing.

_They did not know a damn thing._

They had nothing. They were fishing in the dark. He carefully omitted the evening in St Tropez, and neither Auror pressed the point. For whatever reason, they knew nothing – beyond an odd general suspicion he had no clue where it came from.

He only hoped Ana had realised that as well, but considering that she was the one who had prevented him from pulling his wand on them, she might even have known.

"Once more."

As a general rule, they talked English. Even when they talked with each other.

The dark-haired Auror folded his legs and a sheet of paper

"Please give us a full account on your whereabouts this last week."

He was the nice Auror. They'd played good Auror, bad Auror for the last two hours. Harry rolled his eyes.

"As I _might have mentioned_, I was staying at home. I took a walk on the beach on Monday morning, right after breakfast, which was around ten –"

"He isn't talking," snarled Square-Jaw suddenly. He jumped up from his chair and slapped at the metal desk. His partner looked at him impassively.

"She is dead. He isn't talking. We aren't getting anywhere. Did you meet her? How was the exchange supposed to happen? Eh?"

The last part was aimed at Harry. He shook his head.

"I don't know what –"

"The hell you do!"

Square-Jaw was shouting again. He kicked the chair out under Harry, sending it flying, and Harry nearly tumbling down. He only just managed to hold onto the table. Even so, the backrest hit him painfully in the back. The Auror sneered at him.

"Let's get some Veritaserum and force the answers out of him, I say."

He shot Harry a hateful glare and walked towards the door, ripping it open, only to reveal a third man standing behind it, who now stepped inside.

Harry's first impression was that he was absolutely punctilious. He could have given old Crouch a run for his money. He stood rigid, as if he'd swallowed a broomstick, in a crisp black suit, with blond hair that was combed into an accurate side parting, light blue eyes, and he carried an equally black suite case. He would have passed as a Muggle, anytime, anywhere.

The man pushed past Square-Jaw, whose glare had shifted onto the newcomer and multiplied.

"I have a message from the director." He had an accent as well, but it was a different one. German, perhaps. "Release them. They are to be deported to England. At once."

"But –"

Square-Jaw looked like a violent eruption was imminent.

"Feel free to read. I suppose you can."

He put a memo-type of paper onto the table. Square-Jaw didn't even glance at it. He spat onto the ground bitterly and marched out of the room, banging the door shut behind him. His partner looked at the message and then shrugged.

"As he says. You missed your original Portkey, so we'll provide an alternative one."

Harry stared at him.

"Now wait a moment, I didn't want to –"

"To England. As he says."

The other Auror left, and Harry was alone with the man with suitcase. He wondered if Ana had sent him, or somehow arranged it. He didn't appear to be French. Well, one could at least be polite, and Harry _was_ genuinely grateful. He didn't at all fancy swallowing some Veritaserum.

"Harry Potter," Harry said. "Thanks for getting me out."

"Heinrich Schmidt," said the man absentmindedly. He seemed rather taciturn. Harry sighed.

"Mr. Schmidt, not that I want to be ungrateful, but my girlfriend was the one wanting to leave for England. Not I. I tried to tell that to the gentlemen, but they were busy being Aurors. If you don't mind, I'd simply like to leave the estate and return to my home here in France."

"Come now, Mr. Potter, surely you want to return to your home country."

He finally looked at Harry and smiled. It was thin like paper and didn't reach his eyes.

"Follow me."

It didn't sound so much like an invitation as an order. Perhaps it was a German thing. Harry stared at the advancing man's back and resolved to get some answers. Schmidt was getting him out, therefore he had to know how he got in. Or more precisely, why. It sounded reasonable enough to him.

"Would you mind telling me what this just was, sir? What was the big idea?"

His rescuer didn't pause in his steps. Harry became annoyed.

"Hey!" he nearly shouted. "What the bloody hell is this? Why am I here? Why am I going to England, when all I wanted was to visit the mines?"

The man that called himself Schmidt made no indication that he had heard anything. He smiled his thin smile and beckoned him through the door, back into the anteroom.

"Your Portkey will be here in a moment."

Ana was already waiting in a chair. She rose as she saw Harry, looking at him apprehensively and the same time relieved.

"Everything – everything alright, Harry?"

Harry exploded.

"Nothing is alright! No one tells me anything, unless you count the accusation of espionage of all things, and now I'm getting deported to Britain. I don't _want_ to visit your uncle, thanks very much. I'm just fine in France, and I like the nice weather and –"

Ana seemed more miserable the longer he went on. Harry stopped, cursing mentally.

A little more calmly, he asked: "Is it true, then? What he says?"

"I'm afraid it seems that way, Harry."

She rose, straightening herself.

"They showed me the order and it's valid. We have to leave. Sleep at my place?"

There was hope in her voice, now.

Suddenly, all Harry felt was tired and fed up

"Whatever. I've had enough."

He slid down onto a chair and stared listlessly across the room. The nicer of the two Aurors was standing near the door, moving away to let Schmidt pass, who left without a goodbye. Then the Auror left too. The building was silent. Ana's red bag was missing.

"And you didn't even get your bag back. They kept it?"

She started, looking furious for a moment, and then nodded absentmindedly; she finally seemed to have discovered her nerves. She now constantly darted nervous looks around and breathed a sigh of relief when the taller Auror arrived with the Portkey, which, to add to the ongoing insult, was a dirty sock.

He sneered at them.

"And don't bother to return, English scum."

Harry couldn't muster the energy to respond, and Ana didn't seem to care either. The Auror sneered one last time, and a few seconds later, they fell through screaming whirlwind of colours, as the Portkey activated.

# # #

Harry opened the window a crack to let in fresh air, already walking towards the bedroom door, when the crows all of a sudden were disturbed and cawwed angrily. He turned around, looking out over the lawn and frowned as he saw a wizard in a large, bulky robe and hat standing near the gate on the road. _Him again._

# # #

It was almost nine p.m. by the time they finally were back in Britain. Their Portkey-sock dumped them roughly in the far end of Knockturn Alley, between the _Dancing Dragon_, a seedy bar, and a large building that was looking rundown on the outside and housing the largest gambling parlour in magical Britain inside. Harry would have fumed, if he hadn't been so tired.

Their abrupt presence caused the shady characters to scatter, and a few people, a couple and a bulky-looking man, actually Apparated away. A hag started nagging shrilly. Harry blinked, trying to get this eyes to adapt from a brightly lit building to a street whose sole lights were the crown glass windows of the pub, and the blinking and flashing Light Charms of the gambling parlour on his right that cut through the night with their glaring stroboscopic shine.

From the inside of the _Dancing Dragon_ sounded raucous laughter, muted. The door opened, and a man staggered out, spilling the sound and the smell of smoke and Firewhisky onto the street. Then the doors closed again, abruptly cutting off the sound once more.

The people on the street cautiously looked around, and when no clear danger seemed to radiate from the two of them, eventually resumed their activities. The hag scuttled back to her little wagon and haggled with a wizard in a black cloak over something Harry didn't want to know. The drunk staggered past them. Somewhere someone shouted, in pleasure or pain, he couldn't tell.

Harry shivered. The night was cold.

"Let's go home."

Ana nodded, and both vanished from the street.

# # #

He reappeared next to Ana on the High Street in Hogsmeade, leading up from the station to the castle that was looming over the village like a massive, crouching beast. The stores were all closed, but the windows of the two pubs were still lit, spilling their warm yellow shine into the night. A shadow moved along the way a few yards further up the road, turning into a side street, and for a moment, when it passed one of the windows, it revealed a man in a dark robe. He seemed bulky, or perhaps it was the cloak he wore.

Harry stopped walking at the junction and stared down the direction of the Hog's Head. The man passed beyond the sharply defined cone of light from the window and returned to his existence as a mere shadow. For some reason, he stood out to him – perhaps it was the way he moved, somehow furtively, or the fact that he just looked – looked like the one he'd glimpsed in Knockturn Alley, even if Harry wasn't sure why that would matter.

Ana paused in her steps when she realised Harry had remained standing on the middle of the road, looking back at him from the gate she'd already opened.

"Something the matter, Harry?"

Her call drifted softly through the night. Harry shook his head and walked over to her, leaving the High Street and Abe's pub behind.

The shadow was gone. Somewhere whoo-hooted an eagle owl.

"Nothing."

He'd seen him for all of a second. Most likely, it wasn't the same man. And even if it was, it was the Hog's Head, after all; Abe attracted this sort of customers. He followed her through the gate, and inside the cottage, putting it out of his mind.

# # #

Throughout his quick breakfast, he looked out of the kitchen window. In the absence of the darkness of night to hinder his senses, he now felt sure that it had been the man he first saw in Knockturn Alley. He remained on the street. In fact, as Harry swallowed the last bit of toast, he now even walked towards the gate –

Harry rose, sending the dishes into the sink with a quick charm where they started washing themselves, and walked out into the corridor, ripping open the front door. The man, _passing by_ the gate, started, and left in a hurry when Harry stepped out of the door abruptly, Disapparating before Harry could get a good look.

Harry frowned, half annoyed at himself for being so on edge, half still sure the man had meant to walk up to the house, grabbing his cloak and pulled the door close behind him, making sure it was really locked and all security charms properly in place. Then he Disapparated as well.

# # #

The ministry was surprisingly busy. Everywhere ran frazzled-looking wizards and witches as he stepped out into the Atrium from the Apparition point, and he noticed that most looked like Aurors. There was shouting and general mayhem. It was utter chaos.

_What on earth?_

He walked around the Fountain of Magical Brethren that was the only object around still bubbling happily, across the polished floor that reflected the powder blue ceiling, towards the gates and the desk of the watchwizard, where someone was in a tizzy.

"No one goes in and out!" bellowed an Auror with sparse brown hair. "I don't care if it's Merlin himself –"

Harry pushed past a few wizards who looked liked regular employees, chatting rapidly and looking nervously at the Aurors.

"That goes for you as well. Hey, you!"

Harry looked at the Auror.

"Me?"

The Auror jerked his head. "Yeah, you alri- Oh. Mr. Potter." He narrowed his eyes. "Well, not you exactly, perhaps, but we have to make certain, don't we? Inconvenient time to arrive."

His wand was out, and a few second later a dozen charms had been performed to check if he was himself. Before he had enough time to voice his annoyance, he was already being dragged past the golden gate.

"Inside, then."

A hand pushed him further, beyond the desk of the watchwizard, on which the Auror rounded once more.

"You got that now? _No one_ goes in and out –"

Harry shook his head and marched towards the elevators. Here, less people were walking about, and most of them Aurors.

In the little hall beyond, there finally were no people at all, and blissful silence after the hectic noise of the entrance. Only two more pairs of Aurors guarded the lifts at the back. They looked at him sharply, but made no movement to stop him as he pressed the 'up' button.

Almost immediately after, the lift rattled to a halt from below, and the golden grilles slid open. However, it was already occupied. A tall form, red haired and –

"Harry!"

A large hand thumped him on the back.

"You didn't say you were coming back! Great to see you, mate."

Ron looked as he always had, lanky, red-haired and blue-eyed, and excited to see him. He pulled him into the lift enthusiastically, then he grinned, a little awkwardly. Five years had passed, no matter what. The lattices closed with a clank behind his back and the lift started to move up.

"'Bout time too that you returned, if you ask me," Ron said. "Ruddy French are up to no good. Wouldn't want to be there, when we show them, eh?"

He hammered at a button, and the lift moved as fast as always.

"Bit of a spot of trouble down in the DoM, but what else is new. Apparently, something was stolen, but if you ask me, someone botched one of their new forget-me-charms. Hermione told me about them." He grimaced. "Have to brief Scrimgeour."

Suddenly, he darted Harry a furtive glance.

"Ginny will be ecstatic when I tell her. As will Mum. Drop by anytime, Harry."

Harry let him ramble on, thankful that his friend with his innate carefreeness to which he'd held onto would never wonder if it had been five years or five minutes, and never expect any response as long as he didn't ask a question. Harry's own thoughts were stuck at the offhand comment about France. Had it really become that bad in his absence? What happened to the spirit of the Tri-Wizard Tournament? He couldn't recall any such comments from Ron, at all. Things sure had changed.

"Level Five, Department of International Magical Cooperation," the cool female voice rang out. "Incorporating the International Magical Trading Standards Body, the International magical Office of Law and the International Confederation of Wizards, British seats."

"This is me, Ron," Harry said as the doors opened, still in thoughts. "See you later."

"Yeah, later Harry." He waved at him, past some memos that fluttered into the cabin, and then the grilles closed and the elevator moved on.

The corridor of the International Department was all thick wine red carpets, panelled wall and large sunny windows, with club chairs dotted in corners. Only the Minister had better. Here, in a long side corridor to his right, delegates from all over the world had their offices, behind neat, polished oak doors with shining brass nameplates, and the British Ministry wanted to make an impression on them. It worked out well enough.

Harry turned right and passed the Danish-Norwegian Union, Transylvania and Egypt. The offices weren't sorted at all. Or if they were, he had no clue how.

Annoyed, he stared at the door with the plate 'Ahmed Abdul, Egypt', then down the long corridor that looked endless. How on earth was he supposed to find anything in here? How many members did the ICW even have, anyway?

Behind him, the door of Krissa Norgaard, DNU, opened. Out stepped a cool Nordic blonde with stunning blue eyes and an expression that meant business. Her robes were snug over her chest without appearing too small and the same colour as her eyes, a shade of ultramarine. Harry stared.

A smile ghosted over her face and addressed him

"Iz there anything I can help you with?"

She sounded a little condescending, which was a pity, because she had a nice voice otherwise; which a slight accent that made her English sound a little sharper than it had to be.

Harry pulled himself together.

"Uh … yes. How does one find anything in here at all?"

She looked at him, a little derisive, he thought.

"It'z the next door."

Harry stared at her. Again.

She shook her flaxen head, irritated.

"You think of vhere you want to go, and it'z the next door. Would be inconvenient otherwise. Didn't you know it?"

He supposed he still looked dumbfounded, because she paused and sighed. "Vell. Apparently you did not. I thought you vere making fun of me."

Her expression softened, and just like that, she looked one magnitude less politician and the same order of magnitude more friendly. "I apologise."

Then she regarded him questioningly and her look was even a little mischievous.

"Vhere did you want to go, then? Not visit me, I think?"

Now there was a smile on her face that said she wouldn't mind. Harry finally shook his head.

"I'm sorry. I truly didn't know how it worked. And yeah, not you, sorry. Mr. Rousselier. The French delegate."

She laughed.

"Some other time perhaps then. Now that you know how it workz. There you go."

Harry spun around and sure enough, the second door, where until now Ahmed Abdul had been, was now open and French voices drifted out, evidently unbothered by the fact that they had been just been transported from Merlin knew where to him.

Or had he moved? Or …

_I really should stop wondering about magic_ he thought ruefully, and turned to thank Krissa, but she was already gone. He shook his head a last time and knocked on the frame, poking his head inside.

"Monsieur Rousselier?"

There was only one person in the room. The French delegate, an averagely-sized man around forty, with maroon robes and frizzy brown hair that was balding at his temples, was talking through the Floo.

"– non – mais oui, évidemment j'ai le colis – _non_, Marcel. En personne. Vingt minutes. Dites-le-lui. And I have a visitor. "

He rose, terminating the connection without saying good-bye.

"Do come in, please."

Harry entered the room and caught a hint of something. He paused in his steps for a split second, before he moved on.

_Jasmine._

Mr. Rousselier had had a lady visitor, it seemed.

The delegate had by now returned to his large desk, which occupied the middle of the room, and carefully placed a flat brown parcel, a little larger than his hand, in a small black bag. Then he looked up and smiled, although it looked tired.

"Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Potter?"

Harry sat down on the chair on across from him.

"I want to protest how I and my girlfriend were handled yesterday by your Aurors. Your Ministry will get an official complaint, as soon as I can fill out the forms."

Mr. Rousselier gaped at him, then he started to laugh.

Harry was not amused. The French delegate stopped chortling and finally started to talk.

"Dear Mr. Potter. Not to sound disrespectful, but I think under the current circumstances, nobody will care. At all. Neither my Ministry, nor yours – or well, let's rather say, it wouldn't change anything at all in the relationships between our two countries, so everyone has more important things to do."

Harry narrowed his eyes.

"I know Francois Lambard, the deputy head of your Aurors. He struck me as a decent sort. I can assure you that he will not be pleased. Neither about this, not about how his boys behaved."

Rousselier shrugged.

"So you do. I know him as well, and he told me of you, yes. It doesn't change a thing, but I will give him your regards when I see him the next time."

Harry stared at him.

"I was kicked out of France, most rudely, I might add. Do I need to point out that I did _not_ wish to leave? If you would be so kind as to arrange for my return, I would be most obliged. I have a house there, after all. Should anything have happened to my property upon my return, because I was not able to lock it down properly, I will be most displeased."

The other man shook his head.

"I don't think you understand, Monsieur Potter. But out of interest, were your Aurors in blue, or did they have red stripes on their cuffs?"

Harry looked at him oddly.

"The latter. Why?"

Rousselier grimaced.

"Because then it wasn't any Aurors, but wizards from the Department of National Integrity. Lambard is in no position to do anything regarding that. Not that it matters, since I wouldn't be able to address your complaint."

He looked at Harry.

"I am no longer in any official position with your Ministry, and thus neither in mine."

"Well, then who is? I –"

"No one is. There is no longer a French delegate in Britain. And as of midnight, there is an order for every British Wizard in France to leave the country, and I wouldn't be surprised if by this hour the British Ministry had uttered the same order in reverse. So you understand why it might be somewhat impossible for you to return. I am packing myself, as you can see."

He made a sweeping gesture, and suddenly Harry noticed that the room was empty.

There was the furniture and a potted Flitterbloom, but there were no books in the bookcases, the filing cabinets were open and cleaned, and two large trunks occupied the left corner, next to the desk, which was void of all and any papers.

Harry shook his head.

"I don't understand. What is the meaning of this?"

Mr. Rousselier looked at him thoughtfully.

"Haven't you heard about the current tensions?"

Harry shrugged. "Yeah, but it's not that serious, is it? I mean, there are always squabbles – silly regulations, import bans …"

Now the delegate shook his head.

"Quite in the contrary, Monsieur Potter. The last time it was this deadly serious, in 1815, France declared war on England."

Harry stared at him flabbergasted.

"What?"

Rousselier smiled, but it lacked humour. With a flick of his wand, he summoned a paper that was rolled up on top of the trunks.

"If your press had their way, it would be time, already."

He turned it around, and pushed it towards Harry.

_**WAR**_ screamed the headline. Below that – _Scrimgeour: "No Death Eater will get away, France does not cooperate, we will react"_ Harry pushed it back, aghast.

"This can't be – still, it's only the Prophet."

Rousselier smiled thinly.

"_Only_ the Prophet? From everyone, but not from you, Monsieur Potter."

And Harry knew far too well what he meant. His thoughts were racing at the implications at what this meant. Ana had to have known something. That was why she had been so anxious to leave so abruptly. Conversely, finding Inès killer had just become all but impossible. And on top of that, he still was Auror of the reserve. He could be in France in a few weeks alright, and not at all in the way he wanted. That couldn't be real.

Just how far had it gotten out of hand? He suddenly remembered Ron's words and felt an icy hand in his neck. _He, too._ The meaning of his words was now all too clear. Had the world gone mad? He knew he'd been living in relative isolation in France, but not in his wildest dreams would he have expected _this_.

_They just had a war, damn it all._

And with Ron and the Prophet as good indications about the general mood of the people, it seemed they were hungering for another one. It boggled his mind. Agitated, he looked at Rousselier.

"Why don't you hand over the damn Death Eaters, then?"

"You know as well as I do that there are no such wizards in France, so we couldn't hand anyone over if we wanted to – which by now, understandably, we don't. But all that is secondary anyway, since of course your Minister never cared about fugitive Death Eaters. The way he almost actively sabotaged the talks I lead in the last forty-eight hours makes me think he actively plans for a war. In whatever way that would be fought. And now …"

His hands made another wide gesture, encompassing all of his room and perhaps the Ministry.

"Now I'll leave. Your Minister and half of the Department heads have informed me personally of his decision to expel me. You're lucky that you came when you did; ten minutes later and I would have been gone."

Harry stared at the desk, trying to work out what he had to do.

"I need to go back to France. Before I get _sent_ there." He looked up. "If need be, I'll come with Muggle transports."

Rousselier smiled sardonically.

"If you try, you will find the Border as bothersome as everyone before you, I'll imagine. Why do you want to go back so badly, if I might ask? France won't be any nicer a place than England in the coming days. We, too, have our fair share of regrettable short-sighed individuals."

He steepled his fingers, thoughtfully. First alternating, then a tent.

"If it's about your house, I doubt anyone will touch it – or be able to, for that matter. Still, I'll talk to Monsieur Lambard and see that no one does, if that assuages your concerns."

Harry stared angrily at the man.

"It's not that! Why has this to happen now, of all times? After all that – you know, Rousselier, that is bollocks. Who in their right mind would want another war? Is Scrimgeour crazy?"

The French delegate stared at him. Then he snorted loudly.

"You will find, Monsieur Potter, that war always is. I do not want it, but neither is it within my influence to stop it. I fear that if there is no miracle, that headline there will be true in three weeks at most. It is out of my hands, the time of diplomats is over. Once it has reached this point, it means that we – I – have failed. That is not a nice feeling, I can assure you."

"I still don't see what he would have to gain," Harry muttered. "It makes no goddamn _sense_!"

Rousselier pulled a round golden watch on a chain out of his pocket and opened the lid.

"You know, of course, what is in Normandy, where the Death Eaters are supposed to hide?" he said casually, studying the clockhands. "You were there yesterday."

Harry's eyes widened.

"The Floo Powder mines! You think that that is –"

The other man snapped the watch shut again with a click, rising abruptly.

"My Portkey should be ready any moment."

He dumped the watch back into his pocket, and busied himself on the trunks assuring they were closed, clearly intent on leaving. That brought Harry back to the hope he secretly had linked with this visit, and which now seemed to be deceived, as his time was running out. Desperately, he threw all caution overboard.

"Could you at least tell me what resulted from of the investigations of the incident in St Tropez?"

Rousselier stopped at what he had been doing and his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"You're are remarkably well informed, Monsieur Potter."

Harry jumped up, speaking fast and walking back and forth on the carpet.

"I was on board. I knew Inès; I was deeply saddened to hear of death later on."

The other man watched him carefully.

"By rights, you should have been questioned. But I suppose, they couldn't get you out of France fast enough, yes?"

"Quite right."

Rousselier stared off into space. Then he shrugged.

"Ah, not my problem. Very well, Monsieur Potter. I will tell you what I know, as you knew her."

He bent down, opened one of the trunks again and pulled a slim folder from the inside.

"This went out to every department. Someone high up there is very interested in that case."

Harry almost ripped it out his grasp, but just in time remembered to ask.

"Could I …?"

Rousselier shook his head.

"Confidential. I couldn't _give_ it to you if I wanted to."

He needed this file. While he still thought about ways to convince Rousselier to circumvent the vow and give it to him anyway, the latter had already opened the file.

"Let's see. Inès Martinez, Twenty-Two, died September twenty-eight. The findings of the Healer concluded that she was killed by a Killing Curse. At the crime scene, the traces of three persons were found. Two walked away, into an unknown direction –" Harry tried not to wince at that "– one Apparated away, the trace lost itself somewhere within the Massive Central; he or she is presumed the murderer, a professional, because he or she used every means possible to cover the tracks, and seemingly Apparated all over the country to lose his or her pursuers – with success. About the other two, no one knows anything. No other trace was found."

Rousselier made the tiniest pause, but Harry picked up on it. Years of dealing with the Old Man, may he rest in peace, had thought him to recognise when someone knew more, yet wasn't sure whether or not to disclose it.

"Yes? There's more?"

He looked at him.

"I only tell you this because you are a friend of Monsieur Lambard. The information is kept secret. There was an anomaly aboard the _Sabuha_. The owner, Monsieur Abdul Nasser al-Khayat – you knew him as well?"

"I had dinner with him."

"Yes, he died before he could he could be interrogated. The cause of death that was found was highly unusual – a subarachnoid hemorrhage."

He looked at him, piercingly.

"Glassy eyes …" Harry mumbled. "He did seem off – and blood in his brain …?"

His gaze snapped up.

"There was more than one _at the same time_?"

Rousselier smiled, but it lacked any real emotion.

"Bravo, Monsieur Potter. You do your reputation justice. You came to the right conclusion in about two seconds, when the experts tasked with the case needed almost a day. Indeed, it is suspected there were two. He was held under two Imperius Curses at the same time, which slowly caused his brain to deteriorate every time he was given two conflicting orders. The curse would have never been detected otherwise, if it simply had been lifted. But no one could guess what he was used for, because Mademoiselle Martinez is dead, everyone else were Muggles who of course noticed nothing, and no one knew about your presence."

Harry opened his mouth to bring up the clearly French wizards he had fought, but then thought better of it. No need to point him to something apparently no one knew. For whatever reason.

A clerk poked his head around the doorframe.

"Mister Rousselier? The Portkey is ready."

"I'm coming, Simon. One minute."

He pressed his lips together.

"Given what you told me just now, your testimony would be most valuable for the case, but as things are going right now …"

He sighed wearily, and suddenly looked much older than forty. Harry imagined that he had to have been in meetings constantly, if things were as bad as he made them out to be. No wonder he looked tired, especially if it had been useless in the end.

"I don't hold out much hope that anyone is going to question you anytime soon. Perhaps … perhaps when all this is over. Hopefully."

He rose, and straightened his robe.

"Well, Monsieur Potter, it has been a pleasure. If only everyone in your country was as … ah, never mind. Let's hope that I am dead wrong, and my worries won't be yours and everyone's anytime soon."

He stuck out his hand, and Harry shook it.

"Simon?"

The clerk was back.

"Could you help me with my luggage?"

"Of course, Mister Rousselier. The trunks and the bag?"

"No, I'll take the bag myself. Please see to the trunks."

The clerk nodded towards Harry as he passed and flicked his wand, to levitate the two items, and again as he left the room.

"Mister Potter."

He walked out of the door, with the French delegate and his luggage in tow.

The latter lingered.

"Under better circumstances the next time?"

Harry nodded.

"I certainly hope so."

"Then I wish you luck in – finding – what you're looking for. Au revoir, Monsieur Potter."

"Good-bye, Monsieur Rousselier."

He walked quickly down the corridor, to catch up with the clerk, while Harry remained behind, frowning. What had he meant with that? His eyes roamed the office absentmindedly, suddenly coming to a halt on the desk, where he had sat only moments before. The file he had taken from his trunk was still lying on it.

_That old fox._

Harry began to smile.

# # #

His good mood lasted for the exact amount of time it took to leave the Ministry and Apparate back to Hogsmeade.

As he walked up the road to Ana's house, an uneasy feeling crept up on him. It was noon; the fog in the streets of Hogwarts nearly gone, retreated further down the hillside, towards the lake, though the air remained cold and clammy. However, that wasn't what made his hairs stand on edge. He tucked Rousselier's folder under his arm and hurried towards the door of the cottage.

"Ana? Are you home?"

He had stepped inside and looked around the small hall. Her cloak was there.

"In the living room, Harry."

Closing the front door behind him, he entered the living room and stopped short. The place was a mess. Couch and chairs were upturned. Things from various cabinets were strewn across the floor, their drawers open and empty. Bits of paper trailed through the air, raised by his entrance.

Ana was currently standing in the middle of the chaos, surrounded by books cleared off the bookcase, her blonde hair in a ponytail and hands on hips, with the wand in her left. Her red bag stood on the table. Harry stared in bewilderment as the wand described a wide arch and the couch righted itself, tipping from the backrest back onto its legs.

"What are you doing?"

The papers re-stacked themselves and vanished in a drawer. She turned around. There was an odd expression on her face he couldn't place.

"Tidying up. Apparently, someone broke into the house."

* * *

**A/N: **Status updates are in my profile.

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